


Peripheral Vision

by Friolero



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bully Castiel, Bullying, Consensual Underage Sex, Disability, Domestic Violence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Gen, High School Student Castiel, High School Student Dean, M/M, Minor Violence, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Physical Abuse, Please read each chapter for additional tags, Protective Dean Winchester, Sick Castiel, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-02-15 00:54:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 50,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2209524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Friolero/pseuds/Friolero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Writing everything down will help you process what you’ve experienced.” His mom said before she closed the door, leaving Dean alone in a small office with a pad of paper, a pen and his thundering heart trying to beat its way out of his throat.</p><p>Later, when Dean tries to pinpoint when his relationship with Castiel changed, he's not sure if he should chose the first time he saw Castiel hiding in the park, their confrontation in the schoolyard or their roadtrip. Falling for him had happened swiftly, like an unsuspect beach dweller suddenly caught by the surf. Now, he can´t imagine what his life is going to be like, if Castiel isn´t in it.<br/> </p><p>On hiatus (maybe)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter one.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is losely based on a children´s book by Arne Garvang called "Muffe tar saken."
> 
> Please read the warnings on individual chapters.

**Warning** for use of swear words, (and probably terrible American terms).

 

 

**Chapter one.**

 

“Writing everything down will help you process what you’ve experienced.” His mom said before she closed the door, leaving Dean alone in a small office with a pad of paper, a pen and his thundering heart, trying to beat its way out of his throat.

 

Dean stares down at the blank piece of paper in front of him, his thoughts and feelings battling for control. He takes a deep, steadying breath and reaches for the pen. 

 

Fine.

 He can do this. He just has to write it all down.

 

He’s never been one for chick flick moments. He doesn’t want to talk about his feelings, and he certainly doesn’t want to write about them.

 

Fuck it all.

 

Writing it down will just makes it seem like it was all something that didn’t happen to him. He can’t put down the jumble of events and well, crap, _feelings_ all neat and orderly onto paper, just for somebody to read and then understand what happened. Like "here it is A through Z, without any detours.” Like there’s an orderly, chronological logic to this story. Hells, But it’s not a story, it’s something that happened, in real life, to real people, to him. 

 

It’s like….Like one of those…decorative art things you put on your wall made of thread and wool and stuff. Those things where there is a fairly decent picture on one side, but when you look at the back it’s all a mess of threads and knots crisscrossing and going this way, and that.

 

People will just be interested in looking at the picture on the front, but Dean knows the mess that is hidden behind it, how itis all tied together.

 

So, where does he start? 

 

Maybe with a prologue, with some profound quote from some author, celebrity or a song? A lot of authors and stuff does it, maybe they think it makes their story seem all smart and wise. Like there’s a deeper meaning than all those letters they’ve commandeered into rows of words and sentences. 

 

Dean can even easily find some lyrics from Led Zeppelin that would fit. Something about heaven and hell and how it all sucks, but just got to muddle on with life. He’s certain Vonnegut hassaid something suitable that he could relate to these events. That man had something clever to say about everything. Maybe a quote from _Mother Night_ , how we should all be careful of who we are pretending to be. 

 

It’s certainly fitting; everything considering.

 

Perhaps he should quote himself. “It was shit when it all began, and the whole thing was shitty, and the ending is the shittiest.” 

 

No. There’s no quotes for this, no clever little phrase that will wrap it all up and tell the reader “this is what it’s all about, sister.” It would be really crappy if it were that easy to sweep up, like it’s all just some great life lesson to live and learn. The only thing Dean can say he’s learned from it all is that some people deserve to be taken out of the equation before they have a chance to mess up people’s lives. That sometimes that’s not even a punishment strong enough.

 

Dean stares down at the still blank paper and combs his fingers through his hair. His hair feels slick and disgusting, like it did after that first weekend he was home on his own and decided that there was no real reason to shower, and his hands come away greasy and thick.He’s washed them at least twenty times, and still that doesn’t feel like enough. But, there’s no dried blood or anything stuck under his fingernails.Thank the fuck.

 

Through the small office window, he can see his parents sitting on a narrow, wooden bench, huddle together. Even from this distance Dean can see that his mom’s been crying. Again. She’s been crying for almost two days now. She tries to hide it, because, well, she has to be professional and all that. It’s her job to deal with this sort of crap. She’s probably dealt with hundreds of situations just like this. It’s just the first time it’s hit too close to home. Like, horrible things that happen to people you don’t really know, people you can just say goodbye to and not have to look in the eyes again. Then it’s easy to be all sad and sympathetic and secretly glad it’s not happened to you. Then, when it happens to somebody you know, sad is just not strong enough a word to describe this…this thing eating its way into your marrow. 

 

Ugh. 

 

He’s terrible with words. He hates them, how they keep changing meaning and making him feel inadequate, how he can’t even properly apply them himself. They suck. And sometimes, worst of all, sometimes there just aren’t words that properly fit, like he’s trying to force a square peg into a round hole or something.

 

Dean lets his head drop to the table and lets out the sigh of the long suffering. At this rate, he’ll end up being at the station until tomorrow.

 

He could start at the very beginning. Not at the beginning, _beginning_ with everything being nothing and then it was all a something and how there was a bright, intense moment where everything changed. Even if that was an important part.

 

What he should start with is the bet because that is how he got involved in it all, even if it’s not how it really began.Even if the entire incident makes him look like a dumb ass.If he hadn’t agreed to that bet, he wouldn’t have been out there at the ass crack of dawn, snooping around the Novak house like a creep. 

 

Dean cringes at the memory, and tightens his grip on the pen until he can feel it start to bend to the pressure. Man, that had been awkward as fuck.

 

If he had just kept to his nose out business that wasn’t his, he’d been home now, enjoying a pizza with Sam and watching crap television. He might even work up the enthusiasm to finish his history homework. All-right, in the spirit of honesty, and he feels like it’s important to be honest here, he wouldn’t have bothered with the stupid assignment, because their teacher never checks their homework.

 

But Cas wouldn’t be so lucky, and the thought makes him feel a little dizzy and nauseous. How is he suppose to put it to paper if he can’t even think about it?

 

Maybe if he does write it all down he’ll be able to pinpoint exactly when things went so spectacularly wrong.

 

Should he write alittle introduction? A disclaimer of sorts. Perhaps something sincere about how this has all changed him as a person. Because it has, it’s impossible not to. He’s realized things about himself he, in all honesty, would have preferred to be ignorant about.Seventeen is far too young to make life-altering decisions. Christ, they will probably make him go into _therapy_ after this, make him sit in the office of some snotty doctor and make him talk about his feelings. Sam would love that, him, not so much, no. But then again, Sam will probably need to see a shrink as well. They all tried to shield him from it, but Sam’s nosy and too clever and grown up for his thirteen years. 

 

At any rate, prologues and forewords are something that belongs to stories and this isn’t a story.

 

It’s a statement to the police.

 

There’s a tentative knock on the door before it’s pushed open, and a young police officer sticks his head in. Dean thinks his name might be Charles or something. He’s almost certain he’s one of the guys that showed up for his dad’s BBQ on the last weekend of August. 

 

“How’s it going, Dean?” Charles glances knowingly at the blank piece of paper and Dean shrugs helplessly.

 

“If you want some advice,” he says, “just start with the first thing that pops into mind”

 

“I thought this was supposed to be my statement. Shouldn’t it be all official like?” 

 

“We’ll sort it out later, don’t worry. Think of it…like a draft. Just, get your facts down and then we’ll go through them and help you sort it into a statement.” Charles offers a brief smile before he leaves Dean alone again with his pen and paper.

 

Get the facts down? Well, that’s easy. 

 

“Castiel Novak is the biggest piece of shit in Lawrence High School.”

 


	2. Chapter two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see chapter one for disclaimer.

**Warning** for graphic display of bullying, cursing and homophobic language.

 

 

**Chapter two.**

 

 

Dean is certain that his dad is trying to teach him some sort valuable life lesson, known only to him, by making him use their old Volvo to drive to school. It always announces its arrival with chugs and coughs that Sam claims aredue to Dean not know how to drive properly. Which is crazy because Dean has known how to drive since he was ten and Sam, the little twerp, still can’t reach the wheel and the pedals at the same time. 

 

“I’m due a growth spurt, mom says so.”

 

“Keep on dreaming.”

 

What was his parents even doing with a Swedish car. Where the hells was Swede, in some part of Canada?

 

So, his car sucks and doesn’t actually afford him any social credits at school, but Dean figures that as long as his position as star of the baseball pitch remains unchallenged, the girls won’t look too closely at the state of his car. At least not after he’s got them into the backseat of it.

 

“You got that Chess Club crap today, Sam?” Dean navigates the car into the student parking lot, feeling lucky to find a shady spot under one of the trees.

 

“Yes, and you're supposed to wait, or I will tell mom.”

 

Dean knows from experience that the challenge of telling their mom is a real one. He may hate the Volvo, but without it he’ll be stuck at home in the evenings and the weekends, not to mention the fact that he’ll never get the stench of the school bus out of his leather jacket.

 

By silent agreement, they separate on the school steps. Dean and Sam may be tight, but neither wants to recognize this in the public of their high school. Sam veers off to join his gaggle of geek friends while Dean scouts the crowd for one of his teammates he can hang with until the bell rings. 

 

He doesn’t see any, but his gaze finds the taunt line of Castiel Novak as the guy makes his way across the school yard, the students parting away from him like the Red Sea.

 

Fuck. Novak.

 

Is it really true that there are assholes like him in every school? 

 

Dean doesn’t think it’s possible to replicate Novak’s particular brand of cruelty. 

 

The thing about Novak is that, he seems totally harmless. Right? He’s always dragging the entire curriculum around in ridiculous leather backpack. There is a rumor that Novak is the son of a minister, and if you judge a book by its cover that might actually be true. He looks like he’s coming straight from the church pew in his, slightly too large, pressed pants and crisp shirts. .

 

And ties. Always with a narrow, blue tie.

 

The stupid blue stripe that made Dean mistake him for a substitute teacher the first time he sauntered into the class room in the middle of his sophomore year.

 

Novak certainly isn't an innocent preacher's kid. He is more like one of those harmless looking animals that lures you in with their fancy attire and charming, innocent smiles and cornflower blue eyes only to viciously vivisect you as soon as you get close enough.

 

Sometimes Dean wonders if Novak spends his free time designing these insults, because they are always, always tailor-made to hit just where they do the most damage. Sure, you’re feelings are hurt and all that, but the real terror is the fact that Novak seems to know things about you and your family that you are positive you’ve not _told a living soul_. Things you’ve not even confessed to your diary.

 

“I see your mother dearest has put out your clothes for you again, Tran.” Novak proclaims just loud enough for everyone to hear.“You forgot to remove the Walmart tag.” 

 

Predictably, there’s a few sniggers.

 

So, all right, Dean happens to know that Kevin lives at home with his single mom, and he once saw them together shopping for clothes at Walmart. His mom had been pulling out one ugly sweater west after the other and holding them up to Kevin’s chest, frowning thoughtfully. When Kevin had spotted Dean, he’d looked like a fucking deer in headlights, terrified beyond belief, and he’d silently pleaded with Dean to take this secret to his grave. And Kevin’s a great guy who once let Dean cheat off him during a physics test. Not Kevin’s fault his mom is a bit over protective.  

 

 Kevin Tran’s face slowly turns an unpleasant shade of red, his mouth opening and closing in silent wrath as he stares up at the lanky frame of Castiel Novak.  

 

Novak just smiles and then strolls past Kevin with a little, consolatory pat on his head, like Kevin’s his freaking dog or something. 

 

Dean knows that Kevin Tran is grateful that he got off relatively easy because Novak wasn’t really putting any effort into it his insults. Putting a kid down for his wardrobe, that's beginner's stuff.

 

He can be so much worse.

 

The thing is, Novak is always so damned smart about it. 

 

 Dean had once seen a documentary about some lionesses who skulks around the antelope herd, just waiting, waiting until that one baby antelope doesn’t notice that the herd has moved on and that he’s suddenly alone. And you see the lioness approaching, and the camera jumping to that baby antelope mewling pitifully with big brown eyes. Then the show skips to commercial because people are always upset about seeing a predator tearing into something cute.

 

Novak is like that, picking on people who happen to be alone. It’s common knowledge and people move in herds like their school is a cheap horror movie and Novak the chainsaw wielding maniac spreading fear and terror on their school. Which, isn’t a too bad, that thing where you compare something to something else, a simile. 

 

And Novak doesn’t discriminate; he picks on everybody. 

 

Dean remembers one time he’d happen to come across Novak and Tim Branson, the school’s star quarterback, in the parking lot behind the school.

 

That that been like slowly watching a trainwreck.

 

Branson is one of those strong, silent types, all smiles and not an unkind word to anybody. He has short,blonde, hair, and one of his four lunch boxes is always filled with cookies or cake. Branson’s a big ass dude built like a freaking bulldozer, and he can crush beer cans against his forehead. Branson could use Novak’s stupid ties to strangle the asshole.

 

But, Novak is a cunning predator, before Branson even had time to look around for some guys to hang with, Novak said to him, all, smooth and deadly like black ice.

 

“I heard your mom left your dad for Ms. Lallis. How does it feel to have a dyke mom?”

 

And then, instead of using his fist to relocate Novak’s smirk, Branson balls his hands into fists and started to sputters.

 

“Ke….kee….keep.” And wow, Dean didn’t know the guy stutters, but that would explain why he always keeps his mouth shut.

 

 A crowd started to gather, as if high school students have an internal radar that informs then when somebody is about to be publicly humiliated. 

 

Sam had once said that people watched other people being bullied because it made them feel better about themselves, that they were just so glad they weren’t that poor smuck. 

 

“Kee…kee…kee” Novak mocked. “Are you going to finish this sentence any time soon, or should I return in a few hours?”

 

There were a few, cautious giggles from a couple of the junior girls.

 

Branson was trembling with barely suppressed rage, even from a distance Dean could see a vein throb dangerously on his forehead. Dean was certain that any second now, Novak would be violently introduced to the dirt and gravel, and really, Novak can’t have any sense of self-preservation. You don’t provoke a guy the size of Branson.

 

“Maybe your dad doesn’t know how to please a woman?”

 

Dean suddenly felt embarrassed on Branson’s behalf. That’s the real power of Novak’s brand of bullying; he makes everybody else so damned uncomfortable that they just don’t dare to intervene.

 

But Branson, this beer can crushing dude, just…screws his eyes up in what had to be a last ditch effort of self-control. He looked to be just seconds away from breaking into tears, and letting Novak make you cry is akin to social harakiri. 

 

Novak remained still and poised, just waiting, and Dean could read a hundred little things from his mien, there was a subtext to his every movement, ever challenging breath he took that seems to say “C’mon on, hit me.”

 

The way he held himself, hands folded over his chest, the smirk marring what would have been a handsome face (Dean can be objective about this!) But Novak’s blue eyes are a raging storm of audacity, almost as if he’s hoping that Branson will lay into him.

 

The daring in Novak’s eyes must have been enough to make Branson hesitate as if he’s worried that Novak can say or do anything that would make the situation worse.

 

The silence continued, and the crowd shuffled uneasily, waiting as if the situation for the situation to explode. And then, and Dean will never understand why, Novak grabbed Branson’s gym bag. Dean knows that Branson carries freaking manuals in that bag, but that didn’t even seem to register with Novak, because he was twirling around like he’s a freaking Olympic medalist in hurling and tossed the bag straight through the window of the principle’s office.

 

Glass crashed and cracked and the crowd dispersed in a second, leaving Branson alone to get two-week suspension and to miss four games.

 

But things with Novak is not as straight forward like that. He’s just not a sophisticated bully.

 

Novak will amble into the classrooms, always on time, the very picture of innocence. He’ll take a front row seat, always, as close to the teacher’s desk as he can. He answers every question the teacher throws his way with perfunctory perfection, back ramrod straight and books aligned perfectly along the edge of his desk. He solves equations that make Dean’s eyes swim and head throb with pain with elegance and speed that makes Ms. Henderson, their math teacher, make odd, pleased sounds from the back of the classroom

 

The transformation from the schoolyard to the classroom is so jarring that it sometimes leaves Dean spinning in confusion, wondering ifNovak might have a split personality, something like Jekyll and Hyde.

 

So far, both Dean and Sam had managed to avoid Novak. Secretly, Dean had vowed that if Novak ever tried anything with Sammy, Dean would do what the entire school wanted to do and plant his fist squarely into Novak’s face.

 

 

School life might have continued down this avenue until spring when Dean needed to get serious about what he was going to do next year. He wasn’t like Sam, who had a damned spreadsheet that dictated his academic career and a blasted twenty-year plan.Sam, irritatingly sensible, had even started saving up for college by doing paper route when he was ten years old.

 

Dean could hardly be arsed to mow the law for gas money.

 

Every Thursday after practice Sam and Dean went to a diner a couple of minutes down the street from their school. It was the one evening both their parents works late and Dean has always preferred fast food to frozen dinners.

 

“Ms. Henderson believes that I could skip a grade in math.” Sam is the only one Dean knows that is actually, genuinely, excited about math. “She already has me working sophomore curriculum and thinks I should just take the junior exam before Christmas.”

 

Dean smiles winningly to Rosie The Waitress as they slip into their regular booth at the far back of the diner. 

 

“That’s great,” Dean says with no real enthusiasm. “I’m sure mom and dad will be really proud.” And Dean is proud of his baby brother, he just wishes he’d stop….making Dean look so stupid.Dean barely managed to claw his way through junior math and now Sam’s going to fly through it in less than four months. 

 

Sam is positively glowing with eagerness, and Dean sour mood wilts.

 

Rosie saunters over with almost indecent swing of her hips for a woman past forty. She smiles sweetly at the two of them, her pen poised over her notepad.

 

“The usual, hon?”

 

Dean and Sam nods and Rosie disappears towards the counter. Sam fishes up his massive American Literature book, and it takes him all of three seconds to be engrossed in Hills Like White Elephants. He vaguely recalls the story having to do with two people drinking on a train station and how he felt cheated because the title promised elephants and didn’t deliver. 

 

Sam is scribbling some notes into the margin of his book while making little humming noises. 

 

Dean fishes out his cellphone and scrolls through a few messages from Victor asking him about a bonfire party this weekend and Dean replies in the positive. 

 

Their dinner arrives, and Dean can feel his mouth water at the sight of the massive cheeseburger and his plate teeming over with fries. Sam quickly rescues his book from a spray of ketchup and stuffs it away in his bag.

 

“Man, I don’t get why you’re into that rabbit food stuff.” Dean watches with thinly veiled disgust as Sam lightly sprinkles some salt over his salad and grilled chicken. 

 

“Some of us doesn’t want to have a heart attack before we’re forty,” he replies smartly before putting a fucking napkin in his lap as if they’re out at a fancy restaurant.

 

“Did you know there’sLatin Club at school?” 

 

Dean wipes melted cheese from his chin with the back of his hand as he considers Sam’s question.

 

“Um. No.”

 

“I just think it would be useful for when I start my law degree as legal terms have their root in the latin vocabulary.”

 

Sheesh, his kid brother.

 

“Sammy, you’re just a kid. You’ve got oodles of time to learn whatever dead ass language you want.”

 

“It’ll look good on my application,” Sam replies, suddenly taking a keen interest in the state of his shoes and something inside Dean curdles.

 

They never talk about their financial situation, but Dean knows there’s a reason Sam has been saving up for college since he was freaking ten years old. If they don’t get a full ride to school, they’re not going to be stuck in this town, and Sam has his heart set on Stamford. 

 

Dean swallows the lump in his throat that he fears might very well be his heart.

 

“Then, join the Latin Club.” He suggests, trying to encourage a smile from Sam. It fails, and Sam looks even more sullen and forlorn.

 

“Um, well. It has a member.” Sam’s shoulders slump and he start to fiddle with the napkin in his lap.

 

“How is that a bad thing?” 

 

“It’s Novak.”

 

Well, shit. 

 

Dean buys himself some time to mull over his possible responses by stuffing a couple of fries into his mouth. He doesn’t want that piece of shit Novak to stand in the way of his little’s brother big lawyer dream. But, he doesn’t want Sammy ever to have to experience Novak’s bullshit.

 

Sam is giving him a tiny, hopeful, glance, the one he uses when he’s trying to gauge Dean’s mood.

 

“You’re in classes with him, what’s he like?”

 

“The dude’s the biggest pile of shit on school.” Dean starts and Sam’s shoulders slump even more until the kid looks like a giant caterpillar in his hoodie.

 

“But, I’ve never seen him anything but dead serious about school stuff. The guys a freaking genius or something.”

 

“So, you think it won’t be too bad to be in the Latin Club with him?”

 

“It’s just the two of you….studying Latin in the library with the librarian present, right?”

 

Sam nods a little. 

 

“I don’t think he’ll give you a hard time.” Dean concedes, and Sam looks, so goddamned grateful for Dean’s encouragement that Dean worries that the kid is going to burst into tears of joy, or do something embarrassing like hug him.

 

“If he gives you any trouble, and I mean any, you tell me. You gotta promise, Sammy.”

 

And Sam promises with a vigorous nod, looking as pleased as punch.

 

They finish their meal in silence while Dean goes through a list of suitable punishments should Novak dare to mess with his little brother. Taping Novak naked to the flagpole is likely to get Dean suspended and booted off the team, but the whole school would get a kick out of it. And it’d be well worth it.

 

Dean is so engrossed in his day dreaming that he’s startled when Sam suddenly says, almost thoughtfully.

 

“I bet you can’t eat an entire pie in five minutes.”

 

“Oh.” Dean snaps to attention “oh, it is on!”

 

“Terms?” Sam says, and like the freaking lawyer in training he is, is already fiddling with a pen and a napkin for what they call the Winchester Treaty.

 

“You’ll do my chores for a week,” Dean says, knowing that this week his chores contains the added unpleasant experience of yard work.

 

Sam scribbles away at the napkin, chewing at the cap of his ballpoint pen as he considers.

 

“You’ll do my job, my way.” 

 

Dean snorts and grabs the napkin, scribbling his name on the dotted line. Sam does the same. “I’ll let you chose the flavor.” And the tone of his voice suggests he’s doing Dean an immense service.

 

Rosie wanders over with the entire apple pie and an amused expression as she gives Dean a fork. Sam clasps his hands together with evident glee, and grabs Dean’s mobile to use as a timer. 

 

Dean realizes by the fourth piece that he’s probably been a bit enthusiastic about his gastronomic abilities, because as he is struggling with the crust and crumbs, he knows from Sam’s excited titter; the kid is almost vibrating out off his chair, that he is going to lose.

 

He is a man of his word, and Dean swallows his pride, (along with that fourth piece) and concedes Sam the victor.

 

“Yes!” Sam crows, pumping his fist into the air and doing a little dance that Dean prays he’ll never make anybody but him suffer the indignity of watching.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“Tell me what I have to do.”

 

Sam finds a map of the town (and who the hells keeps a map of their town in their bedroom?) and spreads it out over the floor, using a couple of books to hold down the curling edges.

 

“So, this is my route,” Sam explains as he trails his finger along the path that leads him to what is considered the “better part of town.” The area is surrounded by a massive park with tennis courts, a large pond, more a lake really, and jogging path lined by gangly trees. The park is mostly famous for the amount of mugging that takes place there on the weekends and their parents have forbidden them ever to go there after dark.

 

“You’re really going upscale, Sammy,” Dean remembers picking up a date in that side of town once. There had been rows and rows of manicured laws, massive, white houses and annoying little yapping dogs. It had been a very short, first and only date.

 

“I worked three years before I was given this route,” and there is no disguising the hint of pride in Sam’s voice. “It’s further away, but the route itself is shorter, and they’re more generous with the Christmas bonus.”

 

Dean gives a distracted nod as he studies the pretentious street names like “Paradise Lane” and “Noble Heart Row.” The latter name is just ridiculous, but the former seemed familiar somehow, he just couldn’t figure out how.

 

“You need to be serious about this,” Sam tells him, his face taking on the same look he uses when he’s addressing a particularly stubborn math problem. “These people are quick to complain if their newspaper is late, or if you throw it into their roses bushes.” Sam pauses for a moment, studying Dean’s face. “Don’t throw it into the rose bushes, Dean!”

 

“Relax,” Dean rolls his eyes, as if he wants to make things harder for his little brother. “It’s not exactly rocket science. Newspaper on their porch. I think I got it.”

 

“And you can’t use the car,” Sam smirks.

 

“What?” 

 

“The bet was that you’d do my job, my way. And I use my bike.”

 

Suddenly, the prospect of doing Sam’s job takes on an ugly hue of humiliation. At least nobody else will be awake at the four am and watch him ride his stupid bike and throw newspaper with the other kids.

 

“You’re cruel, Sam Winchester.” Dean proclaims, warmth blossoming in his chest as Sam keels over with his best impression of a Bond villains’ evil laugh. Damn, he loves his little brother. 

 

“Every paper has to be delivered by six am,” Sam says, “or you’ll get complaints.”

 

“Sheesh.”

 

 

So, at six am the next morning Dean has completed the final delivery in “Noble Heart Row” and slowly peddling away from “Paradise Lane.” He's got to admit, though never to Sam that there is something beautiful about being out in the early mornings. The city is still drowsy, and there’s a relaxing lull and hush over it all when not even the birds are daring to break the silence. He feels like maybe this is the stuff poets always rant about. Feelings and crap.

 

Though, this hill is a bitch.

 

Dean has to admit defeat half way up and jumps off his bike to walk the last stretch to the top. As the road curves and gives away to the lane of houses below, Dean is forced to stop and catch his breath, his exhale sleeping past his cracked lips in hazy wisps. 

 

There’s a sudden movement in his peripheral vision and Dean squints at the figure escaping from the largest house on the row. He thinks it might be number seven. The guy is struggling to move under his massive backpack, and even from a distance there is no mistaking that dark, mop of hair.

 

Dean feels a sudden chill settle in the pit of his stomach.

 

Fuck. The last thing he wants is Novak finding out he’s doing the freaking paper route. He’ll never live that down.

 

But Novak isn’t even looking in his direction as he streaks across to the house on the opposite side of the road. For a moment, Dean wonders if he’s going to knock on the door or something, but Novak veers off and heads for the treeline that leads the park. Perhaps the guy is going jogging, but he doesn’t seem dressed for it.

 

Dean can’t help but be curious, and so, instead of continue on home, he goes left in the same direction as Novak. He makes sure to keep a safe distance between himself and the heavy school bag, but he doesn’t really need to make the effort because Novak seems lost in his world, his head bent as he marches off. 

 

Novak doesn’t stay on the jogging path for long before he abandons it and heads off into the woods. 

 

Perhaps he’s off for some sort of drug exchange or something. Dean wouldn’t put anything past him. 

 

He leans his bicycle carefully against a tree and allows the count to ten before he quietly moves through the trees after Novak. For a second Dean thinks he’s lost him, but ends up almost tripping over the massive backpack Novak has dumped unceremoniously by the trunk of a tree. 

 

Dean pauses and lets his gaze search amongst the foliage for the familiar figure. He spots him a few feet ahead, his back to the trunk of a giant oak, the rest of his body hidden. Probably smoking or something.

 

He bites the inside of his lips as he carefully navigates left; he’s gone hunting with his dad and Bobby enough times to avoid doing something stupid like stepping on a branch. 

 

But Novak isn’t smoking. He is sitting with his knees pressed up under his chin, and his arms are clutched tightly around his legs, and his forehead rests against a small, leather-bound book that he’s holding in a vice like grip. He’s not making a sound, but Dean can tell from his trembling shoulders that he’s crying.

 

The sight is so surreal that Dean first isn’t sure he’s not hallucinating. Here is Castiel Novak, professional school bully, in the middle of the woods, two hours before school starts. Weeping.

 

Novak's quivering formmakes something uncomfortable lodge itself at the back of his throat.

 

Okay, so maybe something sad has happened. Maybe, like, his dog has died. That’d make anybody sad. This is probably not part of his usual, morning routine. 

 

Dean realizes that he doesn’t know all that much about Novak, despite sharing classes with him for almost two years. He doesn't know if he has any family, what he does in his spare time (apart from Latin). He's never at any of the school events or class parties. Not that anybody would actually want him there.

 

Does Novak usually spend his mornings, quietly crying in the middle of the woods? What the hells does the guy outside of picking on people in the school yard and being an honor student in the classroom?

 

Well, it’s easy to figure out the answer to one of those questions. He can just return here at the same time tomorrow and see if Novak has his scheduled crying time. 

 

All right, so Dean’s might, might, have at a time, when he was like, seven, wanted to be a private detective. He’s always been drawn to trying to find answers and explanations to the little mysteries around him. 

 

And maybe it would be nice to have some ammunition to defend Sammy, or for the next time Novak is tearing into one of his classmates to say.

 

“Hey, Novak, I hear you spend your mornings crying like a girl in the middle of the woods.”

 

Dean knows he’s not cruel person, but it’d beso sweet make that asshole take a taste of his own medicine. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still very much interested in getting into contact with a beta. Thank you for reading and please review.


	3. Chapter three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My most sincere and heartfelt gratitude goes out to my superb Anon Beta. They have been immensely helpful with their constructive criticism and patient with wading through my attempt at prose. 
> 
> I also wish to extend my appreciation to everyone of you who have read, commented or given me a kudos. Thank you.

Authors note: Please note that I’ve taken fictional liberties with the designation of homerooms, the information given in them, the structure of classes and lesson assignments and school practices. It may thus differ from the standard US high schools.

 

I also wish to warn for triggers of bullying.

**Chapter three.**

 

 

Dean returns to the tree where he left his bike and the ride home seems so much longer. Gone is that crappy poetry about peace and tranquility of the early hours. No matter how hard he tries, he cannot shake the image of Novak silently crying under the sprawling oak tree.

 

Sam is sitting at the breakfast table, stuffing himself with cereal and  looking far too smug when Dean drags  himself into the kitchen. He's exhausted and the thought of six hours of school is igniting a dull throb behind his eyes ~~.~~    He has a niggling feeling that he has a history paper   by the end of this week and he's wondering where he is going to find the inspiration to even start it.

 

 

“How was your morning, Dean?” Sam fails to hide his grin in his cornflakes and if he weren’t so tired, Dean would probably punch him.

 

“Cram it, short stack.” Dean grabs a slice of bread and butters it liberally before coating it with a hefty amount of jam.

 

Sam smiles and his shoulders roll with poorly concealed giggles. He’s such a girl, Dean thinks affectionately.

 

Sitting in the kitchen his dad has painted a bright yellow and eating breakfast with Sam, Dean feels rather ridiculous about his declaration to give Novak his just deserts. Like, this isn’t a teen flick or anything where he has an entire  student body rooting for him as he takes down the school bully down a peg or two.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The strange thing  is, now that he’s started to think about Novak, he seems to see him everywhere.

 

Dean sees Novak skulking about the schoolyard before school starts, like a vulture searching for the unsuspecting prey. Novak also shows up promptly for all their classes, already prim and proper at his desk, books at the ready, by the time Dean manages to  show up. Novak’s  even at his usual spot  in the student parking lot , enough so that some of the students prefer to park at the mall and walk to school, just to avoid accidentally running into him.

It was all the time in-between classes when he seemed to vanish. ~~~~

 

Before the bell even finishes announcing the end of their first class, Novak is long gone.

 

Dean hasn't noticed it before, because, well, Novak is a major asshole and the less he sees of him, the better.  But you'd think he'd holding court in the schoolyard like the other bullies and idiots.

 

So, Dean ends up spending   recess trying to figure out where Novak goes.

 

He tries the obvious spots firsts, places where students go to score some pot, skip class, or hook up. Novak’s  kind of an outcast ~~,~~ because everybody hates the guy, so maybe he hangs out with the other recluses of the high school hierarchy.

 

But Novak isn't behind the bleachers or lurking in the alley between the science building and the library ~~,~~ as the freaking hipster crowd gives  Dean the look of the long-suffering  before returning their attention to their iPhones. A couple of wannabe punks spit after him when he threads too close to their turf.

 

 

 

As the bell signals the end of lunch, Dean feels like an idiot for jogging all over the school, looking for a guy he really, really loathes. His last period is P.E, and Novak is a no-show.   Coach Bryant doesn't seem overly concerned with his absence and the rest of the class are grateful to not have to suffer Novak's brutish and bloodthirsty clamor for victory in cannon ball.

 

 

By the end of the day, Dean has just about decided to give up on his project and write the entire enterprise off as another embarrassing teen experience that he never intends to examine too closely ever again. Like that unfortunate experiment with the cucumber. 

 

He twists and turns in bed, ruffling his pillow into a more comfortable shape. He lies there in the dark and hears the first telltale sign of rain drumming softly against his window. He closes his eyes and his mind runs down memory lane, bringing back the image of Novak’s  hunched form. The strange way he walked. His very blue eyes and trembling shoulders.  Dean feels something cold and hard settling itself somewhere deep and dark behind his chest bone .

 

He grits his teeth and sets his alarm for four am.

 

 

The next day Dean is feeling far less charitable and poetic about the early morning dawn. Morning sucks ~~.~~ It's a monumental effort to pry his eyes open and his limbs feels sluggish and heavy, like he's just survived Coach Bryant’s Hell Week. Outside he can hear the wind battling with the window shutters and the rain pelting hard against the house.

 

Fucking great.

 

He fails, twice, to stuff his foot into the right legs of his slacks, and it’s just pure luck he manages to navigate the stairs without killing himself. It takes him ten minutes to locate his keys and jacket and then trudge all the way back to his bedroom for his shoes. Finally outside, he steps into a puddle. His socks squelch with every step on the bike pedal and Dean curses and grumbles his way through the entire hellish paper route.

 

There is a nasty wind that his leather jacket can’t keep out, and he's soaking wet and shivering by the time he finishes.  All he wants to do is hurry home, take a warm shower and try to get his feelings back into his fingers and toes. Still, it’s six am, so he stops at the top of the hill overlooking the rows of white estates and dark cars.

 

There’s no sign of life in any of the houses.

 

Right. That’s that.

 

Dean has decided to give up by the time he sees Novak's dark figure crossing the road and heading towards the park. His back is hunched against the rain, and his trenchcoat whips about his legs,  useless at keeping out the wind and water. Even from this distance, Dean sees that Novak is wobbling unevenly, like a drunk staggering out of a bar. Novak somehow looks small and brittle in the grips of the storm, like the wind is about to topple him over at any moment. Dean wonders what would drive Novak out of the comfort of his bed and out into this terrible weather.

 

He leans his bike against a tree and follows.

 

Novak takes the same route as the day before, his back curled, eyes to the ground and every step with determination. This time, he passes the oak tree and keeps on walking until the woods gives away to a clearing and an old, worn gazebo. He stops there, and for a moment he stands still, blinking rainwater out of his eyelashes. Then, the wet figure trudges slowly up the steps and into the measly shelter afforded by the stone architecture. 

 

Dean feels a small measure of relief that Novak doesn't intend to spend two hours sitting outside in the pouring rain, but he  can’t help but wonder at the familiarity of this routine. Like this is a plan, this is what he does if it’s raining. Does he have a contingency plan for winter as well?

 

How long has Novak spent his mornings hiding in the park?

 

Novak dumps his backpack by a narrow  bench and settles down, his back pressed against the cold stone walls. Dean  hides behind a tree that allows him to watch Novak without being seen.  

 

Suddenly Novak twists his head in Dean’s direction and for a terrifying heartbeat, Dean thinks he's been spotted. But Novak's large, worried eyes are locked on something far away. Dean can see the shudder run from the sole of his feet to his shoulders, before Novak curls up, hiding his face.

 

He isn't crying, but his hands are boneless between his legs and his forehead pressed against his knobby knees. The rise and fall of his back is ragged and uneven, and Dean feels a chill curling along his spine that has nothing to do with the weather.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

No matter how Dean tries, he can’t seem to settle down. The cold caress will not go away and it leaves him anxious and more rattled than Dean would care to admit.  He doesn’t know how to – doesn’t want to-  deal with all these unnecessary feelings. Dean just wants to get on with his life and forget he ever saw Novak crying in the park. He wants to forget he ever felt anything but loathing for the guy.

 

Which proves to be easy because the first thing he comes across in the schoolyard is  Novak, taunting a gangly girl Dean has never seen before. “I saw your mom passed out outside Biggerson yesterday, Carter. You should really hide those bottles better.”

 

Carter's only response is to drop all of her books on the wet ground, her hands shaking.  Dean might not know this Carter girl but she clearly knows the best way to handle Novak. She remains utterly stone still, staring at the ground, making no move to rescue her books from rain and dirt until Novak saunters away. Once he is gone, another girl rushes over to help Carter collect her books, offering a consolatory pat on her back.

 

It's difficult to reconcile the stormy expression on Novak's face with the guy Dean saw in the gazebo just a couple of hours ago. The difference is so jarring that Dean wonders if the guy has some sort of split personality.

 

 

Dean takes a chair, one down and two to the right of Novak. He braves a glance at Novak, who is sitting ramrod straight at his desk, books ready, hands clasped in his lap and his gaze fixed on a spot on the blackboard, his eyes solemn and fierce, like the blackboard has done something to personally offend him.

 

The bell rings and their teacher, Mr. Peterson, stumbles in with his usually wild and bewildered look, like he can't figure out why his class is full of people. His cable knitted cardigan is back to front, and his hair has lost its battle with the wind. He slams his briefcase on the desk and tells them to open their books to the chapter on William Blake.

 

There's a familiar rustle of students slowly dragging out their textbooks and Mr. Peterson's scratching the chalk against the blackboard. Novak is already taking notes and is the only one answering the questions Mr. Peterson carelessly tosses to the classroom. Dean loses the trail of the conversation just around the corner of Mr. Peterson cheerfully telling them about William Blake’s claims of God popping by his window to say hello. Instead, he alternates his attention between Novak's slender elbow and the window, where he can see the sun finally breaking through the storm clouds. It has the making of a beautiful day after all.

 

*******************************

 

When the clock is marking the final four minutes of class, Dean sees Novak discreetly sliding his pens and pencils into his slim, black pencil case. It's done with such fluidity that Dean would have missed it if he weren't paying attention to what Novak was doing.  Seriously, the guy must have a talent for sleight of hand or something. When there's less than three minutes left, his notebook vanishes into his backpack, and Novak nudges it to be positioned just below his chair, within easy grabbing range, as if he's preparing a bugging out bag.  At the two-minute mark, when the teacher is rounding up the lesson with the dreaded  “don't forget, the test is next Wednesday,” the books are slipped neatly away, and Novak is ever so discreetly shrugging into his coat. The chair is gently pushed away from the desk without making a sound. In the final minute, Dean can see that Novak is poised, taunt like a pulled spring.

 

When the bell rings, Novak shoots out of his chair, grabs the backpack and rushes out of the classroom in ten, long, steps. Dean hasn't even managed to put his books away before Novak is gone, and by the time he's out of the room, the hallway is swarming with students.  Novak is nowhere to be seen.

 

Novak isn’t in Dean’s math class so he spends the time doodling in the margin of his notes. When their teacher asks for a volunteer to collect some measuring tape, Dean quickly volunteers.

 

Busy fiddling with his permission slip, Dean doesn’t see Novak until he walks straight into him. Novak’s form is sinewy and solid, warm in a way Dean didn’t really expect and he is powerless to stop the blush blossoming along his neck. He quickly ducks his chin before he has gives himself away.

 

Novak’s face is etched with his familiar cantankerous expression and his hands are balled into trembling fists at his side.

 

“Sorry,” Novak finally says without conviction, before shouldering his backpack and striding down the corridor with determination.

 

Dean remains rooted to the spot, watching Novak walk down the corridor, feeling as if he’s just narrowly missed being hit by a car.

 

And then Novak does the strangest  thing.

 

He fishes a set of keys from his back pocket, unlocks a janitor’s closet and sneaks inside. Dean pauses outside the door, wondering for a fleeting moment if he should do something crazy, like knock.

 

In the end, Dean trudges back to his math class, because he’d rather avoid his dad railing at him if he lands in detention for skipping class.

 

 

 

When school ends, the student body spills out into the sunny afternoon, any evidence of the rainstorm that rolled over them this morning long gone.  Jo’s glare makes Dean really appreciate that looks can’t kill. He offers her what he hopes is a placating smile, but her only response  is to give him the finger before walking off with a couple of girls from their class, their long, blonde hair swinging in tandem.

 

When Dean reaches the car, Sam is already there, watching Jo’s dramatic exit. "Is Jo mad at you?" Sam asks. "What did you do?"

"It's nothing," Dean mutters under his breath as he unlocks the doors and throws his stuff onto the back seat.

"Doesn't look like nothing," Sam says, his eyes lit with curiosity.

"Just get into the car, would you."

 

Sam folds himself into the passenger seat, holding onto his backpack in his lap like  a prim old lady with her purse. The sight immediately dispels Dean’s   sour mood  and  he finds himself grinning. Sam gives him the same look he used when he wondered if Dean was sniffing markers, and doesn’t Dean know that you can’t get a high from them?

 

"Mom and Dad are working late," Sam comments, "can we stop and get a pizza?"

"Sure."

 

Dean rests his hands on the steering wheel, waiting for the flow of people through the parking lot to ease up, when he spots Novak crossing the parking lot, right in front of his car. He stops at the student pick up spot, standing stiff and awkwardly, chewing his bottom lip, his hands clutching the straps of the backpack, knuckles white.  He looks like he’s waiting for his execution squad.

 

After a few minutes a sleek, black car pulls up and Novak slips into the back seat without even greeting the driver and disappears behind tinted windows.

 

"What are you waiting for, Dean? It's clear."

 

Dean forces his thoughts away and puts the car in gear.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Rarely has Dean been this glad to see a Thursday because after today, it means there's only one more hellish time he has to get up at the ass crack of dawn and endure the bike ride across town. He's never going to make a bet with Sam ever again. He finishes his route and afterwards, lingers on the hilltop, watching Novak run across the street like a skittish cat. Even from his distance, Dean can see   Novak’s breath in small, white puffs. He disappears amongst the trees in the park just as a window on the second of floor of Novak’s house lights up, and then the quiet is broken by the sound of shattering glass and a loud thump.

 

However, at school, Novak is  up to his usual bullying. There's a horrible, twisting thing in Dean’s heart as he watches Novak loudly mocking a skinny girl, with thick braids and a hideous yellow parka.  She’s clinging to her bag for dear life. Dean locks his fingers around the strap of his own bag, tethering himself from fleeing the scene.

 

"I hear your mother was caught shoplifting again, Matthews. You need to get her sorted before it becomes embarrassing." Every syllable is clipped with anger, but Novak’s  demeanor is relaxed and casual, like he’s just bored with the entire proceeding. It’s such a frightening contrast to the acidity of his tone that Dean wonders if this is a skill Novak has practiced and honed.

 

The girl is sobbing, not the silent, weeping kind, but the one that’s all snot and tears and just makes everybody look ugly and awful.

 

None of the students passing them makes any indication of wanting to stand up to Novak or come to the girl's rescue, and Dean knows they are just too damned grateful that today they're spared his ire. Without warning, Novak twists around, his eyes narrowing to dangerous slits.

 

“What the fuck are you looking at, Winchester?” Novak takes a step closer, until they are only inches apart. “Don’t you think I’ve noticed you watching me.”

 

“Well, at least I don’t go running off into the park every day like some little bitch.” Dean hisses.

 

The words flies out of his mouth with more scorn than he had intended and he tries to soften them with a rough snigger. It comes out tilted and vicious and he wishes the damned laugh had lodged itself in his throat.

 

Novak goes absolutely rigid, before anger flares in his eyes, dark and dangerous.

 

He grabs Dean by the front of his shirt, balling his fist into the fabric and yanks Dean down until they are nose to nose, breathing the same air. His breathing is labored and shallow, almost wheezing and Dean can feel Novak’s slim fingers shake against his chest. Novak is almost a head shorter than him, and his skinny frame belies his strength

 

“You.” Novak says, his voice low and tight, “keep your mouth shut.”

Behind him, Dean can hear the anxious titter and giggles of the students who’ve stopped to watch them.

 

“Or what?” Dean says. He can feel his heart thrilling in his chest, edged on by the anxious mumble of the crowd.

 

Novak’s mouth opens and closes as if he’s testing his responses and for one terrifying heartbeat, Dean is certain that Novak’s going to hit him. But Novak isn’t looking at Dean anymore, but at the increasingly large crowd of students gathering in a circle around them. Dean can almost see Novak calling up the last shreds of his restraint before he settles on showing Dean away, so hard that Dean loses his balance and falls back on his ass, hard enough to leave him momentarily breathless and dizzy.

 

Dean blinks stupidly up at Novak’s face, and sees the undisguised hatred in his blue gaze. Novak turns on his heel and Dean watches his staggered gait take him away from the school property, his every move telegraphing his frustration.

 

There’s a scatter of applause from the students. Matthews pulls herself up on her feet, wiping snot and tears away and gives him a watery smile. A gaggle of girls are whispering and pointing at him and a couple of guys slap Dean’s shoulder, and murmurs their approval. But watching Novak’s brittle back disappear around the corner, Dean feels anything but victorious.

 

 

 

Later, when Dean tries to pinpoint when his relationship with Novak changed, he's not sure he'd choose the first time he saw Novak crying in the park. Or their confrontation in schoolyard. No. It probably started later that Thursday Sam said he was going to the library with some friends to study and could Dean pick him up later?

 

Dean decides to head to the Starbuck’s at the mall and try to conjure up a couple of hundred words on that damned history paper. The mall is unusually empty for a Thursday evening, and his footsteps  sound like staccato notes on the tiles of the main hall. Before he can even make his way to the coffee, he wanders into Kohl’s, deciding to put off working on his paper by browsing for a new pair of jeans.

 

He’s making his way towards the jeans’ section when he wonders if there’s some sort of deity playing a cruel trick on him, because there, in the middle of the shop, is Novak. Dean’ll be damned if he’ll let Novak run him out of the store. Still, he’d rather not have another confrontation and Novak’s shopping in the section Dean wants to go. Maybe if he waits him out, he’ll get lucky and Novak will just move on.

 

Novak idles for a moment in front of a huge stack of jeans, pulling out a pair before he folds them and returns them to their previous place in the neat pile. He then spends ten minutes studying various parkas in green, blue and red. He doesn't try any of them on, and when he seems content with his examination, he moves to over to a row of hoodies. Dean pretends to study the soles of different leather shoes while managing to keep the back of Novak’s head in sight. He's moving quickly between two racks of sweaters to the back of the store, to the men's underwear department. Dean thinks he should just stop it before somebody spots him stalking Novak in the freaking underwear section.

 

There's a sudden change in Novak’s posture.

 

It's minuscule, but Dean's thinks he’s becoming somewhat of an expert in watching Novak flit from one emotion to another. He can almost read all the little details in the way Novak carries himself. There's a tense T in his back as he slides his arm free of one of the straps of his backpack, shouldering the weight on one arm. Then he's glancing up at the ceiling and over his shoulder. Dean creeps around the corner of the shelves of shoes. He feels his pulse quicken. Novak is lingering by the t-shirt section, his back to the security camera and then, as cool as a cucumber, he twists his backpack to his stomach and slips a bag of single, white shirts from a rack into his bag.

 

Apparently the guy  has some experience with sleight of hand.

 

Dean is so surprised that for a second, he doesn't really know what to do. He ducks back behind his row of shoes, pretending to be interested in a pair of Batman slippers while keeping Novak in his peripheral vision. Novak continues on his spree of shoplifting, stuffing another t-shirt into his bag and then sliding gracefully across to another shelves and stuffs two pairs of socks into his bag.

 

So, Dean hasn't ever given a lot of thought to shoplifting, but he thinks that well, shouldn't Novak be stealing something cool like beer and cigarettes, and not socks and shirts? Novak's clothes may look like the hand me downs of an older sibling, always a size too big, but he always appears clean and groomed. Like he makes an effort with his appearance. In a nerdy sorta way that Dean can secretly appreciate.

 

Why the hell is he stealing tube socks?

 

He doesn't have time to mull it over because Dean realizes that he isn't the only one keeping his eyes on Novak. From across the room he sees a security guard moving slowly, but with determination, across the floor, a hand poised over the crackling walkie-talkie on his hip. Novak spots him too and he goes completely and utterly still, hands gripping his backpack. He’s sending furtive glances left and right, probably judging the easiest way to escape, but this section is cornered off and there isn’t any obvious route of escape. The security guard increases his pace, pushing past customers who have stopped what they are doing to watch. Novak cradles his bag to his chest, and he goes completely pale and he looks so fucking scared out of his fucking wits so much so that Dean worries for a moment that he might actually throw up.

 

In retrospect, Dean isn't sure why he does what he does. It isn't at all logical, but for some reason he just can't stand the thought of Novak getting into trouble. Which is insane, because the guy is an utter dick that reduces people to tears on a daily basis. He deserves all the trouble in the world. But all Dean can think about is Novak curled up against the oak tree, shoulders trembling, the eerie way he walked or the way he sat listless and forlorn in the gazebo and Dean's gut wretches so hard he feels queasy.

 

He braces himself and just plasters on his most innocent expression, closes his eyes so tight he sees stars and wanders straight into an underwear display rack. The loud crashing sound causes the entire store to turn to him instead, staring as Dean stumbles to ground, trying to maintain his dignity amid boxers and briefs. A few feet over, a couple of girls are giggling and Dean feels his heart and social status sink into the ground.

 

“Oh, sorry, sorry!” Dean calls out in his best fake apology voice.

 

The guard veers away from Novak and strides over to Dean, his mouth an angry slant in a red face. Dean glances over to see if Novak has noticed him. He has of course; it's impossible not to see the idiot standing in the middle of a pile of underwear.

 

He doesn't expect Novak to lock his gaze. The seconds that passes are a small forever as Novak's eyes goes impossibly wide and blue and steals Dean’s breath from right out of his lungs.  Novak’s still clutching his bag to his chest, and he's shaking like a goddamned deer in headlights. Terrified.  Dean doesn’t know how to name that weird throb in his chest, but he nods at Novak before suddenly grabbing another rack to try and pull himself up, only to bring that down as well. The security guard growls and Novak finally, finally, uses the commotion to escape.

 

“You're coming with me, boy,” the guard snarls, grabbing Dean's arm and yanking him off the floor. He snags a thong that's stuck to Dean's shoulder and drags him out of the shop.

 

He's banned from ever entering the store again, and Dean counts him lucky that they didn't call his parents. He’s not sure he could have survived the mocking.

 

Later, Dean realizes that, in all the commotion, he lost his backpack with all his notes and books for the paper that’s due in the morning.

 

Fucking fantastic.

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Friday comes and Dean’s not certain a weekend has ever been  so long  overdue. Dean could almost weep in anticipation of sleeping away all Saturday morning.     .

 

He lingers  one last time at the top of the hill and watches Novak leave his house, his trench coat trailing after him like a cape. He’s gone in a matter of minutes, the trees swallowing him up.

 

As soon as he's certain Novak is gone, Dean runs the bike down towards number 13. He's only seen the house from a newspaper throwing distance, and up close it looks daunting. It shouldn’t be scary. It’s just a house. It has the same white exterior and immaculate lawn as the other houses on Paradise Lane. But there’s something about that house is so creepy, Dean’s surprised it doesn’t have gargoyles guarding the front.

 

The only light on is the porch light. The front door is black and solid, with a massive, ugly knocker. In the driveway is the black BWM that picked Novak up from school.

 

Dean carefully circles the house and sees that the huge second story windows in the back have some sort of netting over them, the kind you use if you live in a part of town where break-ins are common. Not in quiet suburbia.

 

Dean moves over to the mailbox and squints on the lettering, “Z., J., C., Novak.” The letter J is crossed out, and Dean thinks it probably means that Novak's mom died or moved away and for some reason the thought makes him sad.

 

He's pretty sure he'd be mad at the world, and everybody in it, if something happened to his mom.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The bell announces the start of his history class and Dean finds a seat as far away from Novak as possible.

 

“Pass your papers forward,” Mr. Henderson drones as he sips his coffee.

 

Dean feels something syrupy settle in the pit of his stomach.

Goddamn, that stupid   paper that he hadn't written.

 

Fucking hell.

 

Jo turns around and looks at him. “Where’s your paper, Dean?” she hisses and all Dean can do is give her a desperate look. Jo's eyes widen and she drags a finger across her throat .

 

“All right,” the teacher says, flickering through the stacks of papers. The whole classroom holds its breath, eyes flickering this way and that to try and figure out who might have been stupid enough to not complete the assignment. Dean can already picture himself, sitting in front of Mr. Henderson's desk all afternoon, writing the paper, knowing his parents are going to kill him when he gets home

 

“Seems like everyone  handed them in on time for once, congratulations,” Mr. Henderson says, his tone humorless.

 

Dean's head is spinning, and suddenly Novak turns a little in his chair and looks across the room at Dean.

 

And holy crap, is that a smile?

 


	4. Chapter four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, but I've run into something of a writer's block. My thanks to everybody who has offered their words of support and encouragement, especially my Anonymous Beta, who offers invaluable First Aid.

 

**Chapter  Four**

 

Dean tosses his gym bag into the trunk, slams it shut, turns and collides with Novak. He’s standing ramrod straight with his chin slightly raised, lips pressed into a white line. He’s staring at something above Dean’s shoulder as if he didn’t notice that Dean just walked straight into him.   

 

Dean takes a step back because he prefers to keep his personal space, well, personal.

 

“Hello, Dean Winchester, “ Novak says in a gravelly voice that sounds like it should belong to a chain smoker.

 

“Yeah?” Dean crosses his arms over his chest and takes another step back. He sweeps his gaze quickly over the parking lot. Dean’s grateful that people are too busy escaping to the freedom of the weekend to notice he’s talking to the school asshole.

 

  Novak silently thrusts something at him and Dean just stares at his missing tote bag. He wonders what he is supposed to do – is Novak testing him? If Dean takes it, will Novak punch him? Eventually, Novak gives the bag a little shake, as if Dean is a cat and Novak is fishing for his attention.

 

“Your notes and history book,” Novak says with a frown.

 

“Oh. Thanks.”  Dean feels his neck grow warm as he fumbles to accept the bag. “You forgot it at the mall,” Novak says unnecessarily and clasps both hands at the small of his back.

 

“Right,” Dean says. “And thanks for the….you know.” Dean makes a circular gesture, hoping it conveys his gratitude for Novak forging his history paper.  

 

Novak nods, shifting his weight idly from one foot to the other. Dean can see his Adam’s apple bob, like he’s unsure what to say next.

 

 

 

 

 

Dean pops the trunk again, tossing the bag into the car. When he turns back, Novak is still there, staring at Dean, with a slightly puzzled frown, as if Dean’s an interesting insect Novak wouldn’t mind getting under a microscope. Dean doesn’t like the scrutiny and narrows his eyes. Novak doesn’t seem at all fazed and just keeps staring. Dean feels like things have gone from awkward to just plain creepy. All he wants to do is get the hell away from Novak.   

 

“See you around,” Dean says, hoping Novak will get the hint. Dean   opens the door to the driver’s side; he waits a heartbeat but Novak is still just there. Staring.

 

Jeez, why isn’t he walking away? Doesn’t he understand that Dean thinks Novak is a major asshole and doesn’t want anything to do with him? Just because Dean saved Novak from getting caught shoplifting and Novak saved Dean from detention with that history paper doesn’t make them friends.

 

“So…I’m just waiting for my brother,” Dean says slowly, because Novak obviously doesn’t speak Social Clues. Novak nods but doesn’t move. Dean is half tempted to just get in the car and drive around the block, but he doesn’t want Sam to walk to their parking spot and find himself alone with Novak.

  
“Bye,” Dean says emphatically.

“Goodbye.”

 

Novak balances on the ball of his heels. Dean glances at his watch, and taps his fingers restlessly against the car door. Novak shuffles his feet, his blue eyes flitting this way and that, restlessly as if he’s waiting for Dean to say something else, though Dean is pretty certain he’s ended the conversation.

 

“So…” Dean tries again. “I gotta get going.” Dean really wishes Sam would hurry up.

 

“Do you want to get something to eat?”

 

The question would be reasonable coming from anybody else. Coming from the school bully, the guy who just yesterday almost punched Dean in the face, the question is just absurd. Dean opens his mouth to refuse and is horrified by what comes out instead. And.

 

“Sure.”

 

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Dean wants them back. Is he insane? He doesn’t to grab a pizza or a burger or anything with Novak, he doesn’t even want to speak to the guy. His mind is running a million miles a minute trying to concoct some excuse to get out of going and cover up the truth, even though Novak really deserves to know Dean thinks he’s a dick.

 

But then Novak’s face explodes into happiness and Dean feels his resolve wilt. Nobody should ever look that happy just to go out with somebody for a   burger.

 

He swallows and manages to dredge up a smile.

 

“Thank you,” Novak says, and then, in bizarre display of formality, grabs one of Dean’s hands with both of his and shakes them. In those few seconds, Dean notices that Novak’s skin is soft and smooth for a guy, that his fingers are long and slender, that it takes almost both of Novak’s hands just to cover one of Dean’s hands.

 

He thinks the handshake probably lasts a bit too long.

 

“Right,” Dean says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

 

“Err….Dean?”

 

Dean yanks his hand back and turns to Sam who is staring at Dean with wide eyes as if he can’t really decide on the appropriate reaction to seeing his brother shake hands with Castiel Novak. Novak takes a step to the side, lowering his head and clasping his hands at the small of his back again.

 

He dips his chin to Sam. “Hello, Sam Winchester.”

 

Sam hoists his backpack higher up on his shoulder, clasping at the straps as he peers at Novak with thinly veiled suspicion.

 

“Hello.”

 

Sam turns to Dean, his face impassive. “Should we get going, Dean?”

 

“Yeah, sure.”

 

Dean fishes out the car keys, and glances up at Novak, who is looking confused. It doesn’t last long. Novak schools his features into a mask of indifference.

 

Shit. Right. Eating. Why is his big mouth always getting him in trouble?

 

“So, yeah, Sammy.  Novak here is gonna join us at the diner.”

 

Sam twists around and stares at Dean, as if his big brother has just suggested the three of them go out and mutilate some baby bunnies.

 

“What?!”

 

Dean plasters on a smile and opens the backdoor of the car, motioning Sam to take a seat.

 

“Yeah. It’ll be great.”

 

 Sam looks homicidal, but his voice is charming and sweet when he says, “that sounds like fun.”

 

  Sam crawls into the passenger seat, his backpack clutched tightly in his lap while Novak folds his lanky frame into the tiny backseat of the car. He fastens his seatbelt and folds his hands in his lap as if sitting in the church pew. Sam clasps his bag tighter. Dean stifles a sigh and thinks   this is probably what that dude felt like when he had to share a lifeboat with a tiger.

 

“I know a place just a few blocks from school,” Dean says and catches Novak’s tiny nod in the rearview mirror.

 

Dean is itching to put on some music to break the unnatural silence and soothe his nerves. Instead, he wraps his fingers tightly around the steering wheel and notices that his hand is still warm from Novak’s.

 

 

“I’ve never been here before.” Novak stares at the rows of red seats and the waitresses flitting from customer to customer with such intensity it makes Dean suspect the guy’s never actually been in any diner before.

 

“Sam and I come here all the time.”

 

“That must be nice,” Novak comments idly, and Dean isn’t really sure how to reply so he points to a row of empty booths at the back of the diner.

 

There’s an odd shuffle to figure out who sits where and Sam looks absolutely stricken when he ends up next to Novak. Dean doesn’t feel any better when he finds himself staring into Novak’s blue eyes.

 

Sam wastes no time in digging out his massive algebra book and hiding behind it, leaving Dean to try to try and make some sort of conversation with the guy he hates. Great.

 

Novak grabs the menu and stares at it with the same studious face he uses during their midterms.

 

“What would you recommend?”

 

“Everything, dude,” Dean says, and Novak scrunches his nose in a way that reminds Dean of those bunnies Sam thought they were about to go murder.

 

“I believe I shall try the cheeseburger.”

 

Dean just shrugs and watches as Novak unfolds a napkin in his lap. Then he folds his hands on the table and twiddles his thumbs. Is this guy for real?

 

Sam hunches his shoulders and sinks into the cushions and  the only sound at their table is that of Sam’s pencil against the paper.

 

A waitress appears and for a moment, her presence lifts the tense atmosphere at the table. But she vanishes after taking their order   and   silence settles over them again.

 

Thankfully, Novak is occupied with watching the people in the diner, and if he’s bothered by the silence or thinks it’s weird, it’s impossible to tell. Dean struggles for something to say, but he’s not sure what they can talk about. Asking Novak if he’s reduced anybody to tears today seems counterproductive. The last thing Dean wants to be is on the receiving end of Novak’s wrath.

 

“You’re doing that backwards.”

 

Sam looks up from his book and then down again to the equation he’s been working on in the margins.

 

“What?”

 

“The problem you are working on. You are doing it backwards.”

 

Before Sam can say anything, Novak grabs the pencil out of his fingers. Dean starts to protest on his brother’s behalf, but Novak is already pushing away the napkin trays and ketchup bottles to make room for Sam’s book.

 

“May I please have some paper?” Novak asks and Sam seems too stunned by this unexpected turn of events to do anything but comply. He hands Novak a notebook, glancing at his brother as if making sure Dean’s got his back in case Novak decides to do something violent with Sam’s writing equipment.

 

Novak bends his head, almost pressing his nose into the paper as he scribbles rows of numbers across the blank page. Even from across the table Dean can appreciate the fluidity of his hands and fingers as he navigates the pencil across the paper.

 

“Look. This problem here requires you to flip the formula like so.”

 

Novak does something complicated with the letters and numbers that makes absolutely no sense to Dean, but has Sam sitting on the edge of his seat, nodding eagerly.

 

“That isn’t how Mrs. Barnes explained it.”

 

“You have Mrs. Barnes in math?”

 

Sam nods again.

 

“I thought she had retired; she was a blind as a bat when I had her two years ago.”

 

“This makes so much more sense! I thought maybe I was doing it wrong but I couldn’t figure out how. Oh, can you show me how to do this part….”

 

Dean wants to intervene and ask Sam not to try the patience of the infamous school bully, and aims a kick at Sam’s foot. But Sam’s in a zone, asking questions and testing Novak’s explanations.

 

Novak tackles Sam’s challenges with academic enthusiasm. In a matter of seconds, Sam’s forgotten his previous misgivings about Novak, forgotten that Novak made one of his friends cry in the middle of the school yard just a few days ago.

 

In the span of this week, Dean has seen a number of Novak’s expressions, but is the first time he looks happy and relaxed. There’s a tug at the corner of his lips, as if deep down, Novak is suppressing a smile. Dean is sure this is a side of Novak nobody at school has ever seen before, and he feels an odd warmth blossom in his chest that he really doesn’t want to think about.

 

By the time their food arrives, Sam and Novak have moved from algebra to Sam enthusiastically explaining to Novak his interpretations of _Hills as White Elephants._ Novak nods thoughtfully before asking a few pointed questions that sends Sam tethering. Dean thinks that aside from his teachers, nobody has ever given Sam this much attention when it comes to his academic pursuits. Sure, his parents asks him about his school day and proudly hangs his report card on the fridge, but Sam’s always been leaps and bounds smarter than the rest of them. He’s been reading  about whale hunts and explorations around the world since he was a little kid. When Dean was ten the only thing he was interested in reading was comic books. He’s grateful that somebody is paying attention to Sam, even if that somebody is the biggest asshole in the school. Novak is focused on Sam’s slew of questions, answering all of them slowly and carefully. Dean gave up trying to follow the conversation long ago and realizes that he’s never been the odd one out. Whenever Sam and he meet up with other people, Dean is always the center of attention while Sam is usually off reading by himself in a corner.

 

Dean eats his own burger in silence while Sam is practicing Latin verbs in between his French fries. Novak gently corrects his pronunciations.

 

Then, for the first time since Novak took Sam’s pencil, Novak is suddenly looking at Dean through his dark eyelashes. He shifts to grab his glass of water and the movement causes his foot to accidentally brush against Dean’s. It’s such a fleeting thing and it really shouldn’t make Dean feel the hair on the back of his neck rise to attention. It’s suddenly an effort to make sure he doesn’t choke on his burger. Novak seems oblivious to Dean’s struggle and just smiles at him. If Novak had been a chick, Dean is pretty sure they would be flirting by now.

 

But Novak is a guy, and, hell, they aren’t even friends.

 

The rest of the meal passes much the same way and Sam and Novak keep talking all the way to the car. It has started to rain, a heavy shower that makes the raindrops leap up from the ground. The rain is freezing and in a few weeks it will come down as sleet. People are rushing to find shelter and Dean runs to the car and quickly yank the door open.

 

“So….you’re getting back alright?” Dean asks.

Novak blinks rainwater out of his eyelashes and nods.

 

“Thanks for your help, I ’ll see you in Latin Club next week.” Sam waves and climbs into the front seat, leaving Dean and Novak alone. Novak is quiet again, his hands stiffly at his back and his back ramrod straight, like he’s expecting Dean to conduct a military inspection.

 

“So, it was nice of you to help Sam.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Dean’s not sure if Novak is being incredibly arrogant or just stating a fact.

 

“  Well, see you around and stuff.”

 

“On Monday,” Novak adds helpfully and Dean can’t help but roll his eyes and grin.

 

“Right. See you on Monday.”

 

 

Sam is looking as pleased as punch and Dean thinks that his good mood is likely to last until he has to get up in the middle of the night to do his stupid paper route.

 

“He’s really smart. Like the way he explained things, it made so much sense. I wish he taught the class and not Mrs. Barnes.”

 

Dean fastens his seatbelt and glances over at Sam to make sure that his little brother has done the same.

 

“Yeah? Shame he’s such a major asshole.”

 

Sam’s cheerful disposition evaporates and his posture deflates.

 

“He was….really nice to me at the diner. I don’t know why he’s such a dick at school. Did you hear what he did to Sally Barnett?”

 

Dean shakes his head and hopes that Sam doesn’t tell him. It’s difficult to reconcile the Novak from the diner with the bully from  school and Dean doesn’t like to think that they are one and the same person. That somebody can be so nice to his baby brother, but an utter prick to the rest of the school.

 

“Maybe he’s got it tough back at home.” Sam twists his head to stare at the droplets of rain trailing slowly down the window. He sounds far too old when he says, “I read an article that said that most kids that bullies are bullied at home by their family.”

 

Dean thinks about the J crossed over on the Novak mailbox, about the large, imposing house, about the bars on the second story windows. He thinks about Novak running from his house, escaping from the sound of breaking glass. He can feel his fingers dig into the plastic on the steering wheel, tethering him from the thundering rush of blood that’s pounding in his head.

 

“Yeah, maybe, ”he replies and the words are thick and heavy.

 

“Sucks.”

 

“Sure does.”

 

They swing out of the parking space and waits for the traffic to clear. The window wipers are running at full speed and the rain is hammering against the roof. Dean glances at the rearview mirror and sees Novak in his peripheral vision, his wet hair plastered to his forehead and his coat almost black from the rain. He just stands there, making no efforts to shield himself from the weather. It’s difficult to swallow and the car is suddenly far too cold and Dean cranks up the heat.

 

Dean turns on the signal and slowly glides into the traffic, and just then he sees Novak raise a hand in farewell. Dean doesn’t wave back and a few seconds later, Novak disappears and the rain ratchets up a notch.

 

 

 


	5. Chapter five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm forever in debt to my Anonymous Beta, who took my strings of words and made them sing.
> 
> Thanks to all of you who have read, reviewed and given me kudos, I'd not find the courage to write if not for you guys.
> 
> Please note the warning for this chapter, as it contains a graphic display of bullying (a fight scene).

**Chapter five**

 

 

“Hon? ”

Dean turns to see his mom standing in the doorway. She’s still in her work clothes and her tired smile bears the hallmark of a long day at the office.

 

“Yeah?”

 

Mary leans against the doorframe and folds her arms across her chest and Dean knows instantly that this will be one of those serious conversations about his future.

 

“Can I come in?”

 

“Sure.” Dean rolls his chair away from his desk and watches his mom push away a pile of dirty clothes from his bed without a word. Which means it’s going to be one of those really sucky conversations about college and what Dean intend to do with his life. She sits on the edge of the bed and smiles at him. Dean smiles back.

 

“I was thinking we could start practicing for your SAT,” Mary smooths out an imaginary wrinkle in her suit, “and looking at some possible prospects for colleges. Have you given any thoughts to what you’d like to study?”

 

Dean thinks he’s given it more than enough thought. He’s not a guy suited for academia. Sure he likes to read, but he’s always battling with numbers and he’s just about scraping by well enough to keep himself on the team and his parents off his case.  Dean wants to confess all this to his mom. He wants to allow himself the experience of the relief that would follow if he’d just tell his mom that he’s got no clue what to do. He’s only seventeen, for christ’s sake, how could anybody know what they wanna do at seventeen.

 

His mom wants him to go to college and get a “proper education.” Whatever that really means. Sam’s always not so subtly leaving college pamphlets around. Dean’s realistic, he’ll never earn a scholarship, and he doesn’t want his parents to bankrupt themselves trying to pay for his tuition.

 

Besides, Sammy’s had that Ivy League dream since he was eight.

 

The very expensive dream.

 

“So. Um. Yeah,” Dean clears his throat, struggling to find the words that are going to absolutely break his mom’s heart, no matter how he phrases it. “I was thinking of signing up. After school,” he rushes to add.

 

Mary stares at him for a moment, in that creepy unblinking way she does right before she starts interrogating him.

 

“Like, maybe the Marines or something,” Dean says nervously.

 

“The Marines.” Her posture stiffens at the mere words.

 

“Yeah. Like, y’know. Dad. He’s always on about how the Marines were the best time of his life, how he learned….everything. And they’ll pay for school to. Y’know, if I’d want to get a degree in something. Like. Maybe. Engineering. Or something.”

 

“They’ll only pay if you sign up for six years, Dean.”

 

“Means I won’t have any student loans or anything.”

 

“You’ll be shipped to conflict zones,” her voice strained. “Dean, you could be killed.”

 

Dean shifts uneasily in his seat. “Dad’s always saying how he had the best time in the Marines, how they made them the man he is today.”

 

His mom’s smile is oddly strained. “Nobody’s expecting you to everything that your dad did, Dean.”

 

Dean secretly thinks that his dad really wants Dean to do exactly the same things he did. He doesn’t tell his mom, though, he doesn’t want to be the cause of a fight between his parents.

 

“It’s not like I have to decide now,” Dean says. “Graduation is ages away.”

His mom smiles, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “I’m not sure if I had the same skewed perception of time when I was a kid. Six  months is hardly ages away, Dean. Besides, these things take planning.”

 

“Well, I’m planning on the  Marines.”

 

Mary sighs and rises slowly. “Don’t settle on anything yet Dean, there are a lot of choices open to you.”

 

Which they both know is a lie. Dean’s just scraping by with a C average and the Winchester household can hardly afford to send two kids off to college, not with John’s part-time job as a security guard and all their savings already spent.

 

The silence stretches on until Mary finally lets out a long sigh.

 

“Well, we still have time to talk about it. Just don’t do anything until then, okay?”

 

“I’m not going to run off and enlist, Mom. I have to graduate first.”

 

Dean feels rather than sees Mary’s nod before the bedroom door closes softly and he’s alone.

 

The next few days are hard. Most of Dean’s friends sense his cranky mood and give him space. Benny’s the only one who decides it’s his duty to break Dean out of his funk.

 

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Benny wheedles. “It’s not every weekend the parental units are out of town. We gotta celebrate!”

 

Which is how Dean ends up at Benny’s on Saturday night, wondering if he really wants to be there. Just as Dean is ready to turn around and go home, Ash staggers over, beer in hand.

 

“Dean!” Ash slings a heavy arm around Dean’s shoulder, “have a drink or five!” He pushes a beer can into his hands and guides Dean towards the living room.  Some techno music is thumping loudly and a couple of girls from his literature class are rubbing up against each other in time with the music.

Dean stares at the beer in his hand. He thinks about his mom’s disappointment   at his education choice and doesn’t want to add to it by coming home drunk.

 

“Eh, I’m fine,” he says, pushing the can back into Ash’s hands. He elbows his way  through the throng of people. The party is spilling over the front lawn, a couple making out against a tree, a guy vomiting in the bushes along the driveway.

 

Dean  inhales the sharp, cold, air, glad to be away from the pounding rhythm of the crappy music. He zips up his leather jacket and stuffs his hands into his pockets to stave off the chill. It takes him a while to orient himself, to figure out where he is and how he might get home.

 

“Yo!” Benny jogs up next to him, his breath misting in the air. “You just left, something wrong?”

 

Dean shrugs. “Just needed some fresh air.”

 

Benny nods as if he understands, though he clearly doesn’t. For a moment the two of them stand uneasily side-by-side, stamping their feet against the chill. Dean’s about to suggest they rejoin the party, when Benny grabs his arm.

 

“Look!” Benny points. “Isn’t that Novak?”

 

Dean spies Novak’s familiar form in a bus shed across the road. He’s standing with his hands in his pockets, his massive backpack by his feet and his nose stuck in a book.

 

“Maybe,” Dean hedges.

 

Benny swears and rubs his hand anxiously through his hair. “ I hope he doesn’t decide to come over here. The last thing I need is for someone to call the cops because he’s causing a problem.”

 

There’s a sound of somebody laughing loudly behind them and Dean twists around and sees Alastair and Brady. They each have a girl wrapped around their shoulders and are shaking with mirth. Dean knows who they are, the same way every one in school knows who Novak is. Alastair and Brady were involved in a hazing scandal three years ago where a student ended up hospitalized. Nobody missed them when they were expelled.

 

“Why are they here?” Dean hisses under his breath.

 

Benny  shrugs helplessly. “They just kind of showed up. Brady’s a friend of Ash’s older brother or something.”

 

The quartet ambles down the driveway, when the girl who’s been trying to remove Alastair’s   tonsils with her tongue suddenly stops. Dean can see recognition flitting across her features, and she points to Novak and whispers something to Alastair. There’s a tense moment, before Alastair shrugs out off her grasp and strides across the road towards Novak, Brady trailing after him like a loyal dog.

 

Dean can feel his the hair at he nape of his neck prickle, and he turns away until Novak is just a black dot in his peripheral vision.

 

“Hey,” he hates the quiver in his voice, and he tries to swallow it down, “let’s get back inside, eh?”

 

“No, I wanna watch, I bet something interesting is about to happen.”

 

Novak’s attention is still on his book until Brady snaps it out of his hands.

 

“Give it back.”

 

Brady curls his lips and tosses the book into the road. It lands in the middle of a puddle, the spine breaking and pages scattering. The girls cheer.

 

Novak moves to pick it up and Alastair blocks his path. Alastair pushes him back, but that doesn’t stop Novak. He balls his hands into fists and for a moment Dean thinks Novak is actually going to take a swing at Alastair. He doesn’t, though; he remains still, even when Alastair prods a finger at Novak’s chest.

 

“Now, listen, you rotten piece of shit.”

 

Brady  snickers.

 

Benny bends his head to Dean and quietly confides, “it’s nice to see Novak getting his  due.”

 

Dean cannot help but think about what Sam said in the car, about how kids who bullies others are often the victims of abuse at home and it makes something ache behind his ribcage.

 

“Do you remember Sally Barnett?”

 

Alastair’s voice is  slurred from too much alcohol and he has to shout to be heard over the loud music from the party .

 

News of the confrontation is spreading and several people have gathered in groups on the lawn, watching and whispering.

 

The blankness in Novak’s face is studied and perfected. He’s still not moving.

 

“Answer me!”

 

Several moments pass, the girls behind Brady watching in predatory silence.

 

“Yes,” Novak finally admits, and probably thinking the conversation over, moves to grab his backpack. Alastair is faster, snatching Novak’s arm and yanking him close. Alastair wraps an arm around his shoulder so hard that Dean can see Novak cringe. As if he’s about to introduce Novak to his new group of buddies, Alastair guides him towards the two girls.

 

“You see…» Alastair’s voice is all poison, “Sally Barnett is the little sister of my dear, dear friend.” With his free arm, Alastair gestures to one of the girls. She’s got a pointy face and a dress (that doesn’t cover more than is legally required). She sneers at Novak, but the effect is lost in her wobbly step.

 

“Yikes,” Benny grins, “this is goin’ to be nasty.”

 

Dean doesn’t reply. He’s unable to remove his attention from Novak’s rigid shoulders.

 

“Nice to meet you,”  Novak says, his voice warm and pleasant as he offers his hand to shake.

 

The girl slaps his face, the sound of her palm against Novak’s cheek so loud it makes Benny wince.

 

“You made my little sister cry, you asshole,” the girl screeches, and Alastair tightens his grip around Novak’s shoulder. Novak’s reply comes, smooth and confidant, and makes Dean seriously wonder if the guy has a death wish.

 

“I only pointed out that she should  try to not emulate her sister’s taste in men and-”

 

His reply is cut short by a vicious shriek as the girl launches her self at Novak, kicking and clawing at him. Novak does his best to escape, but he’s pinned in place by Alastair’s arm. It’s a bit of a slapstick fight, Sally Barnett’s sister obviously too drunk to coordinate her kicks and punches.

 

Benny sniggers and at least four people have their cellphones out, cameras pointed at Novak and Barnett.

 

“Now, now,” Alastair yanks Novak away from the girl’s flailing arms. Novak stumbles a few steps, before finding his footing. He rubs the back of his neck and Dean can see a red slash across his chin.

 

“Is that all?” Novak asks, if this is just a tiresome exchange. He makes a move for his bag again, but this time Brady grabs him by the collar of his coat. They scuffle for a moment, Novak trying to pull himself free, but Brady’s a brute of a guy, as wide as he is tall and Novak is nothing but a stick figure in hands. Brady grabs Novak’s right arm and twists it until he’s got it pinned against his back. It has to be painful, but Novak only tenses his jaw and goes still in Brady’s grip.

 

“No,” Brady spits, “that’s not all, shitbag.”

 

 Dean can see Novak’s shoulders  slump , as if he’s resigning himself to another round of being slapped by a girl.

 

“I see,” and then he cants his head, considering. “Can we please move this along?”

 

 

“The asshole’s got balls,” Benny hisses to Dean, grabbing his arm in excitement. Dean shakes off Benny’s grip and takes a step forward, only pausing when he catches sight of Ash, excitedly narrating into his camera phone. He glances at the crowd of excited faces, the same faces that always look away when Novak’s bullying somebody in the schoolyard.

 

Brady pushes Novak forward until he’s facing the Alastair and the two girls. Sally Barnett’s sister is having trouble balancing on her skinny heels while her friend has wrapped an arm around her waist, her lips curled in a vicious grimace. Alastair’s massive arms are folded over his chest, his cold gaze fixed on Novak, who has glued his eyes to ground.

 

Alastair grabs Novak’s chin, forcing his eyes up. Leans in, and Dean see his jaw moving as he whispers something in Novak’s ear. For a second, Novak goes limp in Brady’s grip, and then he explodes. 

 

With a vicious cry, he barrels toward Alastair, his free hands trying to punch his chin, nose, eyes, anything he can reach. Dean can see that Brady is struggling to keep his leash on Novak.

 

“Holy shit!” Benny exclaims, the people around them murmur agreements to Benny’s assessment. Dean takes another step forward, his hands curling into fists. He doesn’t really know what’s worse, the way Alastair and Brady are laying into Novak, or the crowd cheering them on.

 

Novak is cursing and spitting, his face red with rage while Brady drags him backwards, away from Alastair who is laughing boisterously. And then, suddenly Novak twists free of Brady’s grip. He stumbles forward, bracing his fall with his hands and nearly avoiding cracking his chin on the sidewalk.

 

Novak’s fall makes the crowd titter with amusement and Dean feels something unpleasant roll in his chest, like he might actually be sick. Novak may be an epic asshole, but he stared the diner like he’d never seen one before, he was dorky, awkward and kind to Sam. And if Sam were here, he’d tell Dean to help.

 

Novak remains curled up, the only movement the ragged rise and fall of his chest. 

 

Alastair is all grins as he wraps an arm around Sally Barnett’s sister and Brady returns to claim the affections of the other girl. For a moment, it seems like the fight is finished. But as Alastair and Brady turn to walk away, Novak is up like a shot. Dean can see that the guy has a rock in his hand, like he’s actually intending to use it to bash Alastair’s skull in.

 

Novak isn’t fast enough. Alastair swears, ducks and pushes the girl away from Novak’s vicious swing. Alastair’s arm comes around in a deadly arch as he plants his fist in Novak’s face. Novak stumbles back, clutching his nose and mouth, coughing, spraying spit and blood all over the front of his shirt and jacket. He’s heaving for breath and Brady is on him as well, grabbing his hair and yanking his head back so hard Novak loses his footing again. Brady plants a foot against the back of his leg, and Novak crumbles to the ground, cursing and gagging.

 

“Hell,” Benny cries, “that’s gotta hurt!”

 

         Novak struggles to get back up on his feet when Brady plants his foot on his back, forcing him stay down. He curls into a defensive position, but it doesn’t save him from Alastair  kicking his stomach. Once. Twice.

 

The crowd has spilled into the street, several people encouraging Alastair to give the asshole what he really deserves. The twisting feeling in Dean’s chest grows heavy and suddenly the only thing he hears is the pounding of rushing blood in his ears and Benny’s  frantically whispered advice to stay heck out of it.

 

Dean slams into Alastair, putting all his force into his shoulder and knocking him away. Caught off guard, Alastair stumbles to the ground, taking Dean with him. For a second everything is a tangle of kicking limbs, Alastair cursing and screaming. Dean feels somebody grabbing hold of his jacket and hoisting him up, and he turns and barely manages to avoid Brady’s fist.

 

“Dean, watch out!”

 

Benny is suddenly next to him, arms raised defensively. He hoists Brady off Dean in a an impressive display of strength. “We gotta scram, somebody called the police!”

 

The words are enough to sober them instantly. Alastair wipes his mouth, chest heaving and nostrils flaring. He looks murderous and for a second Dean thinks he’s going to kick Novak again. Dean moves to stand in front of the quivering figure on the ground. Their eyes lock and Dean curls his hands into fists, ready to leap into the fray again. But Alastair snarls and tosses his head.

“This ain’t done, you hear?”

 

Dean’s not sure if it’s a warning to him or Novak. Alastair wipes blood away from a scratch on his cheek and then, with a final glance at Novak, turns and stalk away, Brady and the girls hurrying after him. Dean doesn’t move until they have disappeared.

 

“The police?” Dean asks and Benny grins.

 

“Better than shouting fire.”

 

“Shit.” Dean wipes a hand down his face and turns to Novak. He hasn’t moved, but Dean can hear him breathing, loud and wheezing.

 

“You all right?”

 

Novak is silent for a moment, and then his head moves in a slow nod. Dean offers him a hand and half expects Novak to slap it away, but he takes it, his palm clammy, nothing like the warm hand that wrapped around his on Friday. Novak struggles up, averting his eyes and moving to his backpack.

 

“I’m fine,” he says in an unsteady voice. Benny glances at Dean in a way that suggests that Dean’s done his good deed and they can be on their way now. But Dean is remembering the guy who he saw crying in the park, the huddled figure in the gazebo, and he’s rooted to the spot.

 

“Let’s go,” Benny urges after several seconds of uncomfortable silence.

 

“Yeah…” Dean says to Benny, swallowing hard and forcing a smile. “You go ahead, I’ll catch up.”

 

Benny doesn’t look all that convinced, but he relents, shrugging and stuffing his hands into his pockets. Dean watches him leave, with an odd knot tangling itself in his stomach as he suddenly finds himself alone with Novak.

 

“Hey, dude, you sure you’re all right?” Dean asks to Novak’s bent back as the guy fiddles with the straps on his backpack. Dean can see the internal struggle battling across Novak’s trembling shoulders, and finally he turns, looking Dean fully in the eyes.

 

And he looks like utter shit.

 

His lip is cracked and his mouth, chin and the front of his coat is red with blood. A bruise is blossoming, ugly and painful, across his cheek and his hands are scraped red from the first time he fell. He looks moments from toppling over. In spite of all that, his blue eyes are vivid, his gaze fixed on Dean.

 

“Shit,” Dean says.

 

Novak frowns and Dean quickly adds, “I mean, you look like crap.”

 

“Yes ,” Novak agrees.

 

Their eyes meet for a long time, and Dean is the first to look away, feeling something warm coiling along his spine and to his hips.

 

He clears his throat, “Hell , man, what are you going to do?»

 

“I was going to sit here quietly,” Novak replies, and then returns to his seat in the bus shed as if he’s not just had the crap beaten out of him.  He rests his hands in his lap.

 

 

“What? Why are you even here?”

 

Novak trail his eyes about the bus shed and then looks back to Dean as if he’s being particularly dimwitted. For good measure he adds, “I am waiting for the bus.”

 

Dean casts his gaze on the electronic  announcement that informs him   the next bus is hours away. And he thinks that Novak is actually serious, he plans to just sit here, soaked in his own blood, waiting for the bus.

 

“Look,” Dean wets his lips, suddenly uncomfortable by the weight of Novak’s blue eyes.

 

“I don’t know about you, but my parents would freak if I came home in the middle of the night lookin’ like I just went two rounds with Mike Tyson.”

 

Novak tenses and Dean can see him weighing his responses and not really finding any.

 

“Look, there’s a 24hr diner not too far from here. We could go down there and at least clean you up some?”

 

“I…”

 

“Besides, there’s no way the bus driver is going to let you on like that, you look like Hannibal Lecter.” Dean tries for levity and seems to misses it by about a mile. Novak just blinks at him, quiet and cat like.

 

“Okay,” he agrees.

 

Novak rises slowly and grimaces in pain as he reaches down for his backpack. Dean’s not certain where this bout of chivalry is coming from, but he  rushes forward and grabs it before Novak.  

 

“Don’t worry, I got it.”

 

Dean hoists the surprisingly heavy bag up on a shoulder, wondering if Novak’s dragging around the entire school curriculum. He sets off down the street and he hears Novak’s shuffling steps following him.

 

 

They manage to make it to the restroom without attracting any attention from the staff. Novak slowly shrugs off his coat and hangs it over a stall, before rolling up the sleeves of his, previously white shirt. He cups his hands under the  faucet and washes his face, each movement sluggish. He scrubs the blood away from his face and neck with his hands and inspects the cut in his lip. The bruise on his cheek has settled in an angry, red, slant and Dean knows that by tomorrow, it’ll be black and blue.

 

“How’s your stomach?”

 

“It’s a little sore.” Novak carefully rolls down his sleeves. “ The shirt is worse off.”

 

“Blood’s a bitch to get out.”

 

“Yes,” he agrees before turning away from the sink.

 

Even with the blood cleaned, Novak still looks like crap with his split lip and blossoming bruise. His dark hair is standing every which way and his blue eyes are measuring as he stares at Dean. Dean doesn’t think anybody else has ever stared at him as much as Novak, and he’s only really known the guy for a couple of days. Dean feels his cheeks flush, and he ducks his head to hide his reaction, wondering why Novak is making him feel like a fourteen-year-old girl.

 

“You wanna grab some coffee?” Dean stumbles over his words in his eagerness to break the awkward silence.

 

“Alright.”

 

For the second time in a week, Dean finds himself sitting opposite Novak in a diner.

 

Novak has wrapped his long fingers around the steaming cup of coffee and is quietly staring into it. Dean’s been stirring sugar into his own coffee for almost four minutes, struggling to find something to talk about. There’s a minefield of topics he needs to avoid, and in the end, he goes for something mundane.

 

“So, can you make any sense of what Mr. Peterson is talking about in class? Half the time I suspect he doesn’t know himself.”

 

“What in particular are you having difficulty with?”

 

And, yes. Dean’s forgotten that Novak is so goddamned literal.

 

“No, I mean….» he huffs a laugh, “it’s just something you say, y’know, small talk. Like when you talk without really talking about any special.”

 

“I see…” Novak says in a voice that tells Dean that he really doesn’t.

 

“Never mind,»”Dean mumbles and dumps another spoonful of sugar into his coffee. He resumes his stirring and for a few moments the only sound is that of his spoon clinking softly against the porcelain cup.

 

“I would like,” Novak starts and Dean looks up to see him take a deep breath, “to try small talk with you, Dean Winchester.”

 

“Oh…err. Cool. Yeah, cool.”

 

Because how else can you respond to a request that sounds like it belongs in one of those period drama chick flicks Cassie always made him suffer through?

 

Novak looks at him expectantly, in the same intense way he’s been watching Dean in the restroom and Dean quickly steers his thoughts into safer territory.

 

“What kind of music do you like?”

 

Novak’s looking back into his coffee cup, as if it can provide him with the answers. Which is weird, because how can he struggle with answering such an easy question when he had no trouble helping Sam with his complicated algebra questions?

 

“I like Beethoven.”

 

“Not sure if I’ve heard anything by him….”.

 

“I particularly enjoy his Ninth Symphony, ‘Ode to Joy’, which he composed while he was deaf and ill. It is said that he composed the entire piece by hearing it in his head.”

 

Oh, boy. Just when he thought Novak couldn’t get any weirder.

 

“I’m more of a Zeppelin and Johnny Cash man myself.”

 

“I’ve never heard of either,” Novak raises his cup to his lips and takes a long sip while Dean tries to avoid staring at his adam’s apple.

 

“That’s a fucking travesty, dude. One we have to rectify.”

 

The words flew out of his words before Dean had even had time to digest their implication. With anybody else it would have been one of those things you just say without meaning. Like all those plans you make to have lunch or catch a movie, but you never plan to agree on a time and place and _actually_ do it. Novak looks seconds from taking out his itinerary, so Dean quickly adds.

 

“I’ll link you some of their songs on YouTube.”

 

“Thank you,” Novak lowers his cup to the table.

 

Dean takes a sip of his coffee and cringes. It’s syrupy from all the sugar.

 

“What do you want to do after school?”

 

The question catches him off guard and Dean almost chokes on his coffee.

 

“What?”

 

“I said,” Novak raises his voice slightly, as if he thinks Dean is hard of hearing, “what would you like to do after high school?”

 

“Oh.”

 

Dean places his cup back on the table and wipes his hands on his jeans. 

“I’ve no idea, man.”

 

The answer comes to him, unbidden and honest, and he allows himself to savor the moment of relief that comes with finally voicing his own doubts. Even if it’s to a guy he’s supposed to hate.

 

“Like, I’m thinking the Marines, y’know. I just wanna work with people, help them,” Dean shrugs, curling his hands on his tights to keep them from playing nervously with the napkin on the table.

 

“That is very admirable,” Novak says, and if he wasn’t looking so goddamned sincere and honest, Dean would have thought the guy was being sarcastic.

 

“Well,” Dean shrugs, ducking his head, “I sure as shit don’t want to go to college. I’ve had enough of books and essays to last me a life time.”

 

Novak seems to consider this as he folds his hands on the table. “There are many professions you can pursue that does not involve a college diploma.”

 

“Sometimes I think it’d be cool to be an ambulance driver, or maybe a firefighter, or maybe work in search or rescue or somethin’.”

 

These are thoughts Dean’s never voiced to anybody, not even himself. It’s odd  how Novak can ask the very same question his mom asked him, and he’s able to give him an honest answer.

 

“I  think you’d do well in whatever you chose to pursue,” Novak says with such conviction that Dean almost believes him.

 

“What about you?”

 

Novak’s posture slumps a little and he turns to gaze out of the window. For a long moment Dean thinks he’s just decided to not answer, but then he speaks in a voice that’s low and rough.

 

“My adopted father wants me to join the family business.”

 

There’s a lot of information in that simple statement and Dean can’t help but think of the large, white house Novak lives in. The one with bars on the windows.

 

“What  do you want?”

 

Novak turns back to Dean, his face solemn. “I would like to work in    interstellar exploration and design spacecraft.”

 

Okay “ow. Dean’s own aspirations seem suddenly so mediocre and he finds it difficult to swallow around the shame in his throat.

 

Novak turns his eyes away again, hiding his expression as he says, “Or play the piano.”

 

“Shit,” Dean laughs, and Novak turns sharply to Dean again, his eyes blazing. Dean raises his hands in a ceasefire movement. “No, I mean. That’s really cool, dude. You’re wicked smart, I bet you could do it. Screw your  family, it’s your life, isn’t it?”

 

Novak actually does smile at that and it does odd and terrifying things to Dean’s chest and stomach.

 

“Thank you, Dean Winchester.”

 

Dean laughs again, combing a hand through his hair.

 

They sit for a while in silence, Novak staring out of the window  at the dark and empty streets with a faraway expression and a slight smile. He looks nice like this, Dean thinks, despite his busted lip and black  eye.

 

And for the first time since… Dean can’t even really remember, he doesn’t feel the pressure of making a choice for his future. It’s nice to just realize that he has choices that don’t involve college or the  Marines.

 

 But in the meantime, they can just sit here, quietly.

 

 


	6. Chapter six.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish to thank all of you who have given me a kudos, or dropped me a comment, it really means the world to me. Sorry you´re stuck with such a slow-writing author and thank you for not giving up on me.
> 
> As usual, all credit to my wonderful Beta, you´re utterly the best.

Warning for spoilers for C.S Lewis's The Chronicles of Narnia.

 

**Chapter six**

 

“Dean!”

 

Sam grabs his arms, yanks him into his room, and pushes him down into the chair by his desk.

 

Dean sighs and tries to rub the sleep out of his eyes, “Sam, it’s way too early for crazy cat videos.”

 

His little brother rolls his eyes and jabs a finger on the keyboard. Sam's computer screen comes alive and for a few seconds, Dean doesn’t understand what he's watching. Whoever is filming  has the camera aimed on a pair of dark sneakers; then it bounces to a patch of mud and grass, asphalt, more shoes. The only thing he hears is muffled voices, then the sound of people cheering as the camera zooms in on five figures on the other side of the street.

 

Reality catches up with him at disorientating speed when he recognizes the scene from two days ago- Alistair punching Novak, Novak crumbling into a heap on the ground.

 

Shit.

 

It looks even worse now that he's seeing it replayed in a YouTube video, how viciously eager Alastair looks as   he sends the tip of his boot into Novak's stomach.

 

And Novak, he's just…lying there, curdled in on himself and making no attempt to get up and retaliate.

 

Dean grips the edge of Sam's desk so hard it hurts and forces away the uneasy feelings that are threatening to overturn his stomach.

 

Suddenly he sees his own leather clad figure storming across street and barreling into Alistair, pushing him away from Novak. Alistair grabs hold of his jacket and  the two of them go down in a flurry of swinging arms and legs.

 

“That's you isn't it?” Sam is almost tripping over his words. “I recognize the jacket, it's the one dad gave you last Christmas.”

 

Dean pauses the movie. It has over a thousand hits already and over a hundred comments, all of them cheering Alistair on, expressing their delight in Novak getting what he deserves and  lamenting the idiot (Dean Winchester, somebody helpfully adds) who interrupted the fight just as it got good.

 

“So?”

 

Dean twists around and stares up into Sam's open and hopeful face.

 

“I just….well, I'm glad you stuck up for him!”

 

Dean shrugs and turns his attention back on the image frozen on screen: Dean extending his hand to Novak.

 

Even in the film’s grainy image, Dean can see Novak's hooded eyes.

 

“Well, somebody had to.”

 

Sam bites his lower lip . “Y'know, ever since he came with us to the diner, he's been really nice to me in the Latin Club.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yeah, when I signed up, he just sorta ignored me, but the last few days we've been talking a lot.”

 

Dean's not sure how to feel about that, so instead he says, “He's not so much an asshole anymore, huh?”

 

Sam scoffs, “Well, I doubt we'll ever be best friends or anything.”

 

He grabs a grey hoodie and stuffs it into his gym-bag. He throws in a pair of shorts before he folds his frame to the floor, and rummages under the bed for his sneakers. Sam tosses one shoe into the bag, but then he stops, one shoe still in his hands.

 

For a moment he stares at it, and as he fiddles with the knot on the shoelaces he says, “People are saying some really bad things about him.”

 

“Yeah, but….he doesn't deserve to have the shit kicked out of him, I mean….Novak's a nasty piece of work, but he never…he never like hit anyone.”

 

“That doesn't mean he didn't hurt anybody,” Sam reminds him, stealing a glance at the frozen image on the screen.

 

 

Dean pushes the chair away from the desk and snaps the laptop shut.

 

“I wouldn't be so quick to think the guy's on some sort of path of redemption or something.”

 

“I know, I know,” Sam says, “maybe he just know how to be nice?”

 

“This isn't _Mean Girls,_ Sammy, where everybody will end up all best buds in the end.” Dean tries to dismiss the memory of Novak telling Dean he would like to try casual conversation with him.

 

Sam stares at him, his eyes dancing with barely suppressed glee. “When did you watch _Mean Girls?”_

 

“Nevermind!”

 

Dean hears Sam’s laughter all the way to the bathroom.

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

By second period on Monday, the story of the fight between Novak and Alistair has spread to even the most secluded freshman.

 

Dean sees Kevin Tran painting his happiness in the air with waving arms, excitedly telling the story of Novak’s ass kicking to his gaggle of friends. .But, as Dean passes them, the conversation dies to a whisper, and he finds himself on the receiving end of hard glances. Kevin Tran actually gives him the finger.

 

It's uncharacteristically hostile. “Sheesh, Tran, who pissed in  your Wheaties?”

 

“You did, Winchester,” Tran hisses, before turning on his heel and stalking off with all the huff of an affronted maiden.

 

From then, the week just keeps getting worse.

 

Dean is sliding his books into his bag when he feels the sharp edge of an elbow against his back, knocking the books out of his hands.  He spins around and comes face to face with Branson's ferocious scowl.

 

“Sorry,” Branson says in a tone of voice that sounds  anything but.

 

Dean forces a tight smile. “No problem.”

 

Kevin Tran isn't the only one who was thrilled to learn Novak got his ass kicked; it's all anybody talks about. Somehow it became the highlight of the party and Dean is the guy who ruined all the fun.

 

People glare at him, conversation drops dead when he approaches, and there are more sharp elbows and light shoves as he makes his way to his desk. A girl Dean's never talked to goes out of her way to make sure she knocks his pencil case on the floor. His gym bag mysteriously disappears, earning him a reprimand in PE for forgetting his uniform.

 

Dean grits his teeth and shoves his annoyance away

 

On Tuesday, Sally Barnett  trips Dean in the cafeteria and he has to spend the rest of his free period trying to get tomato sauce off his long sleeve shirt. It's an impossible task; the paper towels dissolves, leaving flecks of paper imbedded in the fabric of his shirt, and the more he wipes at the stain, the larger it seems to grow.

 

Dean catches a glimpse of his reflection. Soaked shirt, sauce splattered on his jeans. In that moment he regrets ever getting involved in that stupid fight .  He doesn’t owe Novak anything; sharing one lousy meal and a cup of coffee doesn’t make them friends.

 

 _Heck,_ Novak made a lot of people miserable, he had it coming.

 

Dean cups his hands under the spring, filling them with cold water and splashes his face. He feels something…. something tight and possessive clench in his chest when he thinks about the goddamned resigned look in Novak's eyes as Alistair lay into him.

 

He shuts his eyes close so hard he sees stars.

 

And then he thinks about how intensely Novak had stared at him in the diner; how he had listened to Dean speak like he was the only one in the world, the odd, not entirely unpleasant, thrill in his chest whenever Novak smiles.

 

And this, this right here. This is far worse than getting pushed around in the corridor.

 

Dean can deal with people being assholes.

 

He just wishes he knew how to  deal with all these complicated feelings for Novak.

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Novak hasn’t been in school since the fight and by Wednesday, Dean finds himself staring at the empty seat at the front row by the window, his stomach twisting painfully.

 

By Thursday, Dean's imagination has conjured up all sorts of worst-case scenarios.

 

Novak hospitalized with internal bleeding. 

 

A splintered bone from one of his ribs made its way through the bloodstream and punctured his heart.

 

Dean’s certain he's seen that on an episode of _Doctor Sexy MD._

 

He wishes he hadn’t been such a goddamned idiot and taken Novak to the emergency room, not to have coffee. Who does that with somebody who's just been injured in a fight?

 

Only morons, that's who.

 

Dean jumps each time the speaker crackles, certain that at any moment, the principal will announce the passing of one of their classmates.

 

He spends the entire third period picturing himself at Novak's funeral and freaking about what the hell he should wear. He doesn't have a black suit. He doesn't even have a suit.

 

By Friday morning, his cereal is leaping off his spoon.

 

“Hon, are you sick?”

 

His mom places her hand on his forehead, and Dean pushes it gently away, shaking his head.

 

“I'm fine, mom.” He forces the spoon into his mouth, feeling the soggy gruel of cornflakes grow in his throat.

 

She frowns. “You seem a bit warm… maybe you should stay home from school today, just to be on the safe side?”

 

The newspaper shakes and Dean hears his dad's stern voice, “Don't coddle him, Mary. If he says he's fine, he's fine.”

 

Mary scoffs and glances at Dean with thinly veiled concern. “You haven’t been yourself all week. Is there anything bothering you?”

 

“I'm fine,” Dean says, dredging up a smile, “just….a lot of school work and stuff.”

 

“You'd better not bring home another D, son.”

 

“Don't worry, Dad.”

 

Dean hears the newspaper fold and ducks his chin to avoid his father's dark glare. Before he can start on his tirade about how Dean should take school seriously and how he'll never get anywhere without proper grades, the phone rings and, grumbling, his dad heads on over to answer.

 

His mom caresses his hair and Dean has to stop himself from arching like a cat into her touch.

 

“Will you be home for dinner today, hon?”

 

“I'm not sure,” Dean mumbles through his cereal. “I'm thinking of checking in on a friend. He's been away from school all week.”

 

The words are out before his brain manages to catch up and Dean feels his pulse hammering against his skin. The sight of Novak escaping his creepy white house with its barred windows replays vividly in Dean's memory.

 

But Dean can't take the uncertainty any longer; he needs to know that Novak is all right.

 

“Oh?” A small frown mars the spot between Mary's eyebrows. “That’s too bad. Is it someone I know?”

 

“Um….just a classmate. His name is Castiel Novak.”

 

Dean's unprepared for his mom's appalled expression, like she's suddenly bitten into something vile but is too polite to spit it out.

 

“Mom?”

 

Mary takes a deep, staggering, breath and schools her features.

 

“Nothin', sweetie,” her voice almost deceptively sweet, “just be home by six.”

Dean knows there’s more to it but then Sam rushes in, asking to go to school early, because apparently he just –has- to collect a book from the school library before the first lesson, and they’re out the door.

 

 

 

An hour after school lets out, Dean finds himself standing outside Novak's massive house on Paradise Lane. The lawn is so immaculately trimmed that Dean wonders if they used a measuring tape when they cut it. The sleek, black BMW is in the garage, making his own car look humble in comparison.

 

 _Best to just get it over with_ , Dean thinks and presses his thumb against the doorbell. There's a loud buzzing sound that lingers long after Dean removes his finger.

 

He wraps his hands around his backpack and peers through the narrow slit of glass in the door, and sees a dark figure moving slowly towards the door.

 

He waits with his heart in his throat, and then door opens and light spills out into the darkness.

 

“Yes?”

 

Dean stares at the man standing in the doorway.

 

He's not really sure what he expected Novak's father (foster father, he reminds himself) to look like, but he'd foolishly imagined him to look something like Novak.

 

He really doesn't.

 

It's a tall man, with broad shoulders, and a bit of a gut hanging over his belt. He's dressed in a dark suit with a shirt so crisp Dean suspects it might stand by itself. Most of his hair has retreated to the back of his head and the overpowering aftershave makes Dean's eyes sting.

 

He peers down at Dean.

 

“Yes?”

 

Dean struggles for his words before they suddenly spills out of him.

 

“Ehrm, yes, hello, good evening, is…erm… is No….is Castiel in?”

 

There's a heavy pause during which Castiel's foster father narrows his eyes, peering at Dean like he's some offensive creature daring to sully his doorway.

 

He takes a step closer and Dean immediately shuffles backwards.

 

“Castiel?” He says the name slowly with an odd tilt of his head as he regards Dean.

 

Shit.

 

Wrong house?

 

“Yeah,” Dean stuffs his hands deeper into his pockets, anchoring himself, “ doesn't he live here?”

 

“And you are?” The guy pushes the door open wider, forcing Dean to take step down from the stairs.

 

“I'm Dean, Dean Winchester.”

 

Dean wonders for a moment if he should offer his hand to shake, but instead he just tightens his hold on the straps of his bag, securing them in place.

 

After a moment of silence, Dean helpfully adds.

 

“I'm a friend of…. Castiel's. From school.”

 

“Friend?” The man asks, looking like concept is entirely foreign to him.

 

“Yeah…friend,” Dean says firmly. “We have the same homeroom, history and literature.”

 

“And why are you here?”

 

 

“I'm here with Castiel's homework, you know how he hates to not be able to do his school work.”

 

Suddenly the stern face melts into a smile, and the man pushes the door open and beckons Dean in.

 

“Oh, I see,” he clears his throat. “I am Castiel's father, Zachariah Novak.” He gives Dean a smile that is all teeth. “You can't be too careful, you know, about who you let into your home.”

 

“Sure,” Dean agrees and steps into the bright entryway.

 

The walls and ceiling are painted in a brutal, white color and the immaculate beige carpeting makes Dean feels really bad about the state of his shoes.

 

“I should…” he starts, foolishly gesturing to his shoes, but the guy just shakes his head.

 

“No need. Castiel's just upstairs, third door to the right.”

 

Dean nods, “Thank you.”

 

He hurries away, glad to get away from the smell of Zachariah's aftershave.

 

The entire house smells like the school swimming hall. Dean catches a glimpse of the living room- white walls, white carpets and huge, dark furniture dominate the room with some weird, twisty, metal looking art in the middle of the coffee table. No splashes of colors. No pictures. No television.

 

Dean trudges up the stairs, wondering what the hell he’s doing there.

 

He stands outside the door to Castiel's room, knocking  repeatedly before the door slowly opens a crack. Castiel's eyes are wide as saucers and the sight would have been comical if the guy didn't still look like utter crap. His hair's standing every which way, and the bruise still hasn't faded to yellow and green.

 

“What…” he lowers his voice, stealing glances down the corridor, “are you doing here?”

 

“Um…came with your homework,” Dean shrugs his bag off his shoulders. “You gonna let me in or what?”

 

Castiel hesitates and Dean can see him grasping for a decision.

 

“Did…” he starts, stops, swallows, “did Zachariah let you in?”

 

“That's your foster father, right? Yeah, he did.”

 

Castiel's shoulders slump, the crease on his forehead evens out. He pushes the door open and Dean steps into what is probably the neatest room of a teenager on the planet.

 

There's no clutter on the floor, the books are lined in a row on a small bookcase, sorted by size. There're no posters or pictures on the wall, the heavy, beige curtains hangs perfectly from the window. Even the duvet is unwrinkled. For a crazy second, Dean pictures Castiel just standing perfectly still in the middle of his room to avoid disturbing anything.

 

“Nice room,” Dean offers, looking around for a place to sit.

 

Castiel pulls out the chair by his desk and Dean falls into it. Castiel lowers himself to the edge of his bed, and rests his hands in his lap, looking at Dean expectantly. Even at home he's dressed in pressed dress pants and a shirt, though the top button is undone, allowing Dean the smallest glimpse of the dip of his throat.

 

Dean swallows.

 

“So, yeah. Homework,” Dean digs around in his bag, before offering Castiel a bunch of crumbled papers.

 

“We got our end of the year assignment in English literature,” Dean explains.

 

Castiel places the papers on his thigh and uses his hand to iron out the wrinkles with a slow, luxurious movement that has Dean mesmerized. He shakes his head, and clears his throat.

 

“We have to read some books and make a comparison and analyze the major themes. There's a list of what we'll be graded on,” Dean gestures to the bundle of papers.

 

“Which books are you reading?”

 

Dean shrugs. “I haven't the foggiest. I'll pick, like, the thinnest looking ones.”

 

“It says here you can do the assignment in pairs.”

 

“Sure, less that work that way.”

 

Dean watches Castiel's fingers curl and uncurl.

 

“Would you like to do the assignment with me?”

 

“English literature's not my best subject, you'd be better off without me dragging you down.”

 

“I would like to work with you,” Castiel insists.

 

“Well, don't say I didn't warn you,” Dean tries, though the joke is lost in Castiel who just looks immensely pleased. Dean cannot help but notice how the corners of his eyes crease when he smiles and how he looks…. attractive, despite half his face being a massive bruise.

 

Dean quickly navigates his mind away from those trails of thoughts.

 

“So….”

 

He leans back in the chair, searching the room for anything that will spur a conversation. But the walls are bare, and the only thing Dean knows about Castiel is that he likes Beethoven and wants to design spaceships or play the piano.

 

His eyes lands on the small laptop on Castiel's desk.

 

“Dude, let me show you some of those songs.”

 

“Oh, we…don't have internet,” Castiel says, sounding embarrassed.

 

“Sucks.”

 

Dean glances at the row of books lining the bookshelf and reaches out and snags first the first book he can reach. It's a heavy book in a hard, wine red sleeve and written in golden print is “The Chronicles of Narnia, C.S Lewis.” Dean glances at Castiel who gives him a small nod of permission. Dean slides the book out of its protective cover. It has a fine leather spine and the edges of the books are gilded.

 

“My mom read Narnia to me when I was little, but I only thought it was just the one book. Y'know, the one with the Snow Queen.”

 

“That's actually the second book,” Castiel says, and Dean can suddenly feel the warmth of Castiel's breath against the back of his neck.

 

“Sheesh, you need a damned bell,”

 

Castiel only looks puzzled as he leans over Dean's shoulder and flips the book open to the contents page.

 

“The publication order and the chronological order are different. The prequel, the Magician's Nephew, was written five years before the first book, the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. I always think the ending is really sad.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“The series ends with Narnia being destroyed and Aslan, the lion, leading all the Pevensie children to the real Narnia. But the Pevensies and their parents have all died in a train crash, except for Susan who wasn't on the train. She can't enter Narnia because she….” Castiel and actually blushes, twisting his face away to try and hide his expression. 

 

“Lewis says that she lost interest in Narnia and became caught up in adult things, lipsticks, dresses, and…” Castiel coughs, before finding his composure. “Some literary analysts suggests that she's an allegory to falling…that's she's damned from Heaven: her family moved on to Paradise, and she was left behind.”

 

“That sucks.”

 

Castiel startles.

 

“So, she grew up,” Dean says. “Her whole family dies in a train crash and she's not allowed to live her life? Sounds like bullshit to  me.”

 

“I…”

 

But whatever Castiel thinks to say is lost as the door to his room bangs open. Castiel leaps away from Dean and stares in wide-eyed horror at his foster father.

 

“Your friend Dean is staying for dinner, isn't he?”

 

“He's…” Castiel, who's always so articulate, is scrambling for his words, his hands fumbling with the button on his shirt.

 

“There's no need…” Dean starts, but Zachariah just shakes his head.

 

“That's settled. Castiel, set another plate at the table.” Without further ado, he turns and walks away.

 

“You don't have to stay,” Castiel hurries to add, his eyes darting nervously from the doorway to Dean, still fiddling with the button.

 

“It'd be rude to leave,” Dean replies, and without really thinking about it, reaches out and slips the top button into its buttonhole. His hands freeze on the collar of Castiel's shirt. He's suddenly very aware of the heat seeping from Castiel's shirt. His hands linger on Castiel's shoulder for several terrifying heartbeats.

 

“I'd better set the table,” Castiel's voice is rough, and he twists away from Dean's grip with hunched shoulders.

 

 

 

Dinner is awkward to say the least. Zachariah sits on the short end of a narrow dinner table, with Castiel and Dean seated across from each other on the longer ends. Castiel is perched on the edge of his chair, ramrod straight, navigating his fork through his plate of vegetables and meat as were it minefield.

 

“So. Dean Winchester,” Zachariah declares, and both Castiel and Dean snap their attention to him.

 

“Yes….err,” Dean hesitates, wondering if he really needs to add “sir” or “mister,” but Zachariah doesn't seem to notice his uncertainty.

 

“Do you play any sports?”

 

“Yes. Baseball.”

 

“Baseball, what a wonderful sport,” Zachariah declares. “Castiel is absolutely useless in sports. He has  no coordination whatsoever.”

 

Dean thinks about the way Castiel decimates the rest of the class when they have gymnastics in PE, but the way he can see Castiel tense makes Dean swallow his response.

 

“It's…ah, it's not for everybody,” Dean allows, stealing a glance at Castiel who is studiously trying to skewer his peas with his fork.

 

“He tried out for other team sports, what was it, soccer, and basketball, was it? You're far too scrawny for football. What happened?”

 

Zachariah places his fork and knife on the table, staring at Castiel, who grits his teeth.

 

“I failed.”

 

“Yes, because the coaches said you wouldn't cooperate. Not a team player, Castiel. I've told you countless times that a boy who can't prove himself worthy on a high school sports team isn't going to make it far in life.”

 

Dean sometimes thinks his dad is harsh on Sam and him, but listening to Zachariah makes him revaluate that assessment.

 

Castiel fixes his gaze on his plate, his fork trembling in his clenched hand.

 

“All he does in his room is read all day, or rattle away on that computer,” Zachariah confides.

 

Dean struggles to swallow the lump of mashed potatoes in his mouth. He searches desperately for something to say and is almost relieved that Zachariah seems content to listen to his own voice.

 

“You're not the bookish sort, are you, Dean?”  Zachariah accuses.

 

Dean chews and chews.

 

Castiel sends him a helpless glance from his side of his table. Dean shifts uneasily in his seat, and sees Castiel jerk away as Dean's foot accidentally brushes against his.

 

“Um, no…”

 

“Castiel can't even handle himself in a fight,” Zachariah points a fork at Castiel. “I paid your fencing lessons, and you let some clout beat you up.”

 

“I….” Castiel starts, his voice so meek it ties Dean's stomach in knots. Dean grits his teeth and searches for Castiel's foot under the table, until he can hook his ankle around Castiel's, stilling his jittery movements.

 

Their eyes lock for a moment, before Castiel turns his gaze to his dinner, the tinniest hint of a smile in his blue eyes.

 

“Well, Castiel's the smartest guy in our school,” Dean offers.

 

Zachariah makes a noncommittal noise around his dinner.

 

“What are your plans for after school, Dean?”

 

“I was thinking about the Marines,” Dean says automatically.

 

“That's an admirable career.”

 

For the first time since Dean arrived, Zachariah actually sounds pleased, though Dean is just glad he's managed to change the topic of the conversation. Castiel looks relieved and Dean can feel the tension seeping out from him from their shared contact under the table.

 

And when thinks he feels Castiel's foot slightly caress his, he tucks the sensation away to mull over later.

 

Thankfully, the rest of the dinner passes quickly with Zachariah only giving Castiel terse instructions about doing the dishes and how he needs to set out the garbage cans for tomorrow’s collection.

 

An hour later, it's grown dark and cold and Dean helps Castiel drag the heavy metal bins to the curb. They haven't spoken since  dinner, but Dean doesn't find the silence between them awkward, just companionable, like it had been in the diner.

 

His relief at being out of Zachariah's house must be palpable, because Castiel blushes and mumbles.

 

“My apologies, he can be a little….intense.”

 

“Don't worry about it, my dad can be strict as well.”

 

Castiel presses his lips to a thin line, and refuses to meet Dean's eyes, looking across the road to the direction of the park. Dean sees his jaw bunch and clench, his hands balling into fists as though at any moment Castiel will leap off into the darkness and disappear between the trees.

 

Dean wants to…he's not really sure what he wants to.

 

Take his hand.

Pat his shoulder.

Try to arrange Castiel's locks of hair into some semblance of dignity.

All of the above?

 

For a long moment they stand there on the curb, Castiel's hands limp at his side, the wind tugging at his hair and pressing his trench coat to his skinny frame.

 

“Well, I promised my mom I'd be home before six…” Dean hedges.

 

“Of course,” Castiel says, turning to Dean with a fleeting smile. “Thank you for bringing me the homework.”

 

“No problem.” Dean tries to make his smile less patronizing. “I'll see you on Monday?”

 

Castiel nods.

 

“Goodbye, Winchester.”

 

“Well, we've, what's the word, broken bread or whatever. I'm pretty sure you can call me Dean.”

 

Castiel cants his head, considering.

 

“Goodbye, Dean.”

 

“See you later.”

 

Dean turns and walks towards his car. He dumps his backpack into the back seat and slips in behind the wheel.

 

What the hells is he doing?

 

He collapses against the car seat, his wits scattering every which way, and it takes him to the count of thirty to regain enough control to turn the ignition.

 

The headlights cut like knives through the darkness as Dean reverses onto the street, and he inches the car slowly forward and away from Paradise Lane.

 

In his rear view mirror, Dean sees the lights on the second floor going dark.


	7. Chapter seven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very sorry for being such a slow writer, but at last, here is chapter 7. Thanks for sticking with me and encouraging me, you´ve been really wonderful.
> 
> A special thanks to my Beta, who is the constant gardener, weeding out all those unnecessary words.
> 
> Feel free to visit me on https://www.tumblr.com/blog/friolerofiction

**Chapter seven.**

 

On Monday morning, Dean waits for Castiel in the parking lot. Students trickle past them, some giving him dirty looks, but most are content to pretend he doesn’t exist. Which is fine with Dean, he had enough of their attention last week.

 

Dean was so eager to get to school before Castiel that he sat in the car waiting for Sam to get ready.

 

He’s just glad that Sam hadn’t commented on his sudden decent into insanity.

 

Dean doesn’t want to think about why just the thought of seeing Castiel is making his stomach do somersaults.  Nobody has ever made him feel like   his heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest.  It’s not logical, Dean’s only known Castiel- the non- -bully version of him, at any rate- for a few days. They don’t really seem to have that much in common. Castiel really enjoys school and listens to composers Dean had to Google.

 

But there’s something about the way Castiel looks at Dean, like he’s the only one in the world worth noticing. Nobody has ever looked at him like that before. It’s like he’s addicted to the sensation Castiel’s gaze elicits in him.

 

Dean sees Castiel at the edge of the parking lot, dressed in a trench coat, his shoulders hunched under his massive backpack. He’s eyeing the schoolyard like a gazelle contemplating the odds of a crocodile hiding in the water.

 

Hesitating for a heartbeat,  Dean ambles  over to Castiel, who raises his hand in an aborted wave. Castiel still looks like he’s gone a couple of rounds with a professional boxer, and his grin when he sees Dean, is stiff and awkward.

 

“Mornin’.”

 

“Good morning, Dean.”

 

“How’s the…”  Dean gestures to the bruises on Castiel’s face, and sees Castiel dredge a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

 

“It is better.” 

“Good, good.”

 

Silence.

 

 Worried that Castiel will think the conversation is over and walk away,  Dean grabs onto the first topic that pops into his head and says, “Homeroom is in a few minutes, let’s head on over.”

 

“Okay.”

Then follows the awkward shuffling of who walks first and in the end Dean trails after Castiel. He can’t help feeling that he probably looks like a goddamned lovesick puppy.

 

At the end of  first period, Dean wonders if Castiel is going to follow his usual routine of rushing out of the classroom and disappearing until the next lesson.He’s not really sure what to do if Castiel does. Nor is he sure what to do if Castiel doesn’t. But when the bell rings, Castiel remains behind to speak with their teacher about catching up on work he missed when he was home from school. Dean packs his stuff away as slowly and meticulously as he can, while trying to dodge the daggers Jo is glaring at him.

 

He’s been so caught up in Castiel that  he hasn’t really tried to figure out what soured between them or made any attempts at a reconciliation.

 

He should probably do something about that. Later.

 

 

He doesn’t see Castiel at lunch and he’s no-where to be seen for their self study period .   When Dean arrives at the locker rooms to change for PE, Castiel is already tightening the shoelaces on his running shoes. Dean tries not to stare at the knobs along Castiel’s spine or the sharp angle of his shoulder blades.

 

“Winchester.”A heavy hand lands on his back, jolting him out of his thoughts. “Liking what you see?”

 

A couple of guys snicker. Dean glares at Gordon Walker who curls his lips back to show a row of white, sharp teeth.

 

Dean keeps his voice steady when he replies, knowing that silence is the worst response.

 

“Can it, Walker.”

 

Gordon raises his hands in surrender. “Thought you were all about sticking up for this guy.” He jabs a thumb at Castiel, who’s  suddenly very interested in the state of his shoes.

 

“Mind your own business.”

 

“Mind my own business?” Gordon snorts.

 

“Just leave me alone, Walker,” Dean closes his eyes for a second and scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. Gordon Walker is actually not a bad guy. They’ve horsed around at a couple of parties and he let Dean copy a biology test when he was a freshman.  

 

Gordon grabs Dean’s arm, “I think it is my business, Winchester,” he hisses, yanking  Dean closer until he almost gags on Gordon’s bad breath,         , “when you go after my friends.”

 

There are a few more  cautious sniggers.

 

“Well, maybe your friends should lay off my friend.”

 

Castiel looks up, so startled you’d think Dean was suddenly gibbering in a foreign language.

 

“Novak’s your _friend,_ eh?” Gordon says, his eyes dark and flinty. There’s a new rounds of laughter and Dean sees the blink of a flash as somebody snaps a picture, “ain’t all that _friendly_ the way you’ve been following him around.”

 

“Let me go, Walker,” Dean hisses, desperately praying for a hole to open up and swallow him whole.

 

“You think I haven’t noticed? ”Gordon leans in, whispering in Dean’s ear. “You playing for the wrong team, Winchester?”

 

Dean feels his body go instantly rigid.

 

“Shut it!”

 

“Hitting a bit too close to home, eh?”

 

Whatever Gordon intends to say next is interrupted by Castiel, who goes from stationary to having Walker corralled against the lockers in the blink of an eye. His forearm is digging into Gordon ‘s throat and his elbow is pressed firmly against his chest, pinning him in place.  This time, nobody is laughing.

 

“You’re to stay away from Dean Winchester,” Castiel says, his voice icy cold.

 

“Get off me, freak!”

 

“You should show me some respect,” Castiel dips forward, increasing the weight on Gordon’s throat. Dean sees Gordon’s Adam’s apple bob erratically against Castiel’s arm, his pupils blown wide with fear.  

 

“I read that there’s an art to this,” Castiel says, voice low and tight. “If I do it correctly, you will just be momentarily indisposed. If I do it wrong, the indisposition will be of a more permanent nature.”

 

Gordon is red-faced and wheezing, his hands clawing feebly at Castiel’s arm.

 

“Shit, Castiel, you gotta let him go, the guy can’t breathe,” Dean says.

 

Castiel steps back and Gordon stumbles forward, coughing and gasping for air. Dean takes an uncertain step forward, but Gordon simply waves him off before he slowly pulls himself off the floor.

 

“You’re a bastard, Novak,” Gordon croaks.

 

“You’re to leave Dean Winchester alone,” Castiel says. He turns and looks at Dean as if he’s seeking his approval for just nearly choking a man to death in Dean’s defense.

 

  Dean shuts his mouth with a snap that could have cut his tongue in two. He grabs his P.E bag and shoulders his way through the throng of classmates who are muttering that Novak really is batshit crazy.

 

He doesn’t stop walking until he’s leaning against his car. It still takes him the count of twenty to regain control of his whirlpool of emotions .

 

Goddamnit.

 

Gordon’s probably one of the most emotionally constipated people Dean knows, yet he was able to stick the knife where it would hurt Dean the most.

 

It’s not that it hasn’t occurred to him that this….fascination with Castiel could probably more appropriately be described as  a crush.

 

 

Dean unlocks the car and tosses his P.E bag into the back seat, wishing he could just go for a long drive with some good music and forget all these complicated thoughts and feelings.

 

“Dean?”

 

He looks up and sees Castiel in his P.E uniform, shuffling his feet, “Are you alright? I’m sorry if I upset you.”

 

 

“You didn’t,” Dean says, swallowing, “whatever, I’m fine.”

 

If it had been anybody else, Dean is pretty sure they wouldn’t have believed him, but Castiel just gives a little nod.

 

“Are you skipping P.E?”

 

Dean spreads his arms and shrugs, “Seems like. I’m not really in the mood for running around.”

 

“Aren’t you worried about  getting in trouble?”

 

“Well, you don’t seem to be since you’re standing here too.”

 

“I’m,” Castiel fidgets, struggling to string his lie together, “I’m running track.”

 

“Obviously.”

 

“I….”Castiel starts and then glares at his shoes as though they are to blame for his lack of words.

 

“Yeah?”

 

Castiel looks up and their eyes meet .

 

“Am I really your friend?” Castiel asks, his voice so goddamned hopeful Dean finds it difficult to press his answer past the lump in his throat.

 

“Sure,” he offers and Castiel looks as though Dean’s just hung the sun and the moon and the sensation sends his stomach tumbling again. And then he hears himself adding, “You wanna come home with me after school? We could start on that paper, or I could show you those songs.”

 

Castiel’s eyes are suddenly  guarded.

 

“I….”

 

“If you got other plans,” Dean hurries to add, “we can-”

 

“No,” Castiel interrupts, “I want to. Yes, please.”

 

 

If Sam is surprised to see Castiel piling into the backseat of the car, he hides it well. The two of them make stilted, but polite, conversation while Dean tries very hard not to think about that he’s introducing Castiel to his family. That they’ll be in his room together, alone, with all of Dean’s confusing emotions.

 

“Mom, we’re home,” Sam calls, shrugging out of his jacket and stuffing it into the closet.

 

Castiel stands in the entryway, rudderless and confused, clutching the strap of his backpack and staring wide-eyed at the pile of shoes, jackets and bags that spills out .

 

Dean feels suddenly self-conscious about his home. It’s old, small and filled to the brim with all the little things four people have collected over a lifetime. Castiel’s house had been spotless, not a curtain fold out of place.

 

“So, yeah,” Dean rubs the back of his neck .“This is our place, it’s not…”he herds Castiel out of the cluttered hallway and towards the kitchen.

 

“It’s very nice.”

 

His mom is in the middle of peeling potatoes.

 

“How was your day, hon?”

 

“Great,” Dean clears his throat and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans to hide their trembling.

 

“So, mom, this is my friend, Castiel- from school.”

 

Mary looks up and Dean sees the exact moment when she masks her confusion with her best smile.

 

“It’s nice to meet you.” She wipes her hands on her apron and Castiel almost stumbles in his eagerness to catch her hand in a clumsy handshake.

 

“I am Castiel Novak, Mrs. Winchester,” he says and Dean would have rolled his eyes at Castiel’s formality if he weren’t beginning to find it endearing.

 

“Dean, dear, may I speak you for a moment?” his mom says in a voice that makes it clear that it’s not a request.

 

Dean swallows, his mouth suddenly dry and Castiel looks ashen.

 

“Maybe I should go…”

 

“No, man, it’s okay, just chill, and hang out in the living room for a  minute.”

 

His mom waits, arms folded over her chest.

 

“That’s Castiel Novak,” she says archly.

 

“Yes,” Dean hedges, not really sure where this conversation is going.

 

“I don’t think I meddle too much in your affairs, Dean, you’re always been sensible, but I’ve got to say that I’m worried that you’re hanging out with-” her voice falters as she searches for the appropriate word to describe Castiel. “Well, he’s not nice to the other students, is he? Ellen told me what Castiel said to Jo and Kevin’s mom-“

No wonder Jo looked so pissed when Dean had chosen to sit closer to Castiel.

 

“Mom,” Dean sighs.

 

Dean’s not sure what to tell his mom. He’s not ready to admit to her that he actually…likes Castiel. Hell , he can’t even put those thoughts into words in his own head, never mind in his own kitchen.

 

A part of him wants to rise to Castiel’s defense and say that Castiel isn’t all that bad. Except that he is. He tried to bash Alistair’s head with a rock and had no qualms about pinning Gordon Walker against the locker by his throat.

 

Then Dean thinks about the painful dinner he had to suffer through with Castiel and his foster father and how he saw Castiel run from his house every morning to hide in the park. For a moment it feels as though his heart is trying to claw its way out of his throat, and Dean  swallows his suspicions down .

 

Maybe he should tell his mom?

 

But he knows her well enough to predict what would follow and he doesn’t want to stir up trouble without talking to Castiel first.  

 

“Well?” Mary probes.

 

“We’re doing this final project in English literature,” Dean says. “He’s wicked smart and promised to help me.”

 

He can see his mom relenting.

 

“You’ll tell me if he-”

 

“Jeezes, mom. I can handle myself,” Dean mutters.

 

“Just tell me-”

 

“We’ll be in my room!”

 

His mother still looks unconvinced but eventually gives in. Dean finds Castiel in the living room  sitting upright on the sofa as if rooted to the spot. Had Castiel overheard his conversation with his mom?

 

 

Castiel is staring at the piano.

 

It’s such a neglected fixture in the living room that most of the time Dean forgets that they even have one.

 

“You alright, Castiel?”

 

“I….yes,” Castiel says without conviction. His fingers are curling and uncurling, the movement agitated, eager. He drags his eyes away from the instrument and glances at Dean.

 

“Did you want to play or something? I’m not sure that thing is even tuned, my mom used to play ages ago.Here.” Dean swipes the newspapers off the top and drags the piano bench out from under a potted plant.

“Here,” Dean repeats as he pats the piano seat, “give it a try.” .

 

Castiel sits down stiffly, his back ramrod straight, looking at the piano as though it might bite him.

 

Dean can see when the change happens,  the way Castiel lifts his hands to the instrument and curls his hands over the keys as though they were made of eggshells. His head dips, and Dean can see the small hairs at the nape of his neck rise to attention.

 

Castiel closes his eyes, and then it’s almost as though he falls forward and into the instrument.

 

Dean’s not sure he’s ever heard _proper_ piano music before. He’s got some faint recollection of his mother coaxing out Beatles tunes, and Sam’s brief and clumsy foray into finger exercises. But he’s never heard anything quite like Castiel’s playing and he wonders what sort of magic Castiel uses to seduce the notes out of the old instrument  Castiel plays deceptively easy looking chords with his left hand, moving it up and down the keys while the right hand  caresses the keys, the gestures lithe and  instinctive.

 

  Dean’s eyes fixate on Castiel’s long fingers, the way his muscles and bones tense and jump under his smooth skin as his fingers flow over the keys.  Dean didn’t know it was possible to feel attracted to a pair of hands, but Jesus- he finds himself staring at the round edge of Castiel’s wrist bone and he wants to smooth his own fingers over the skin there and lace his fingers with Castiel’s. Dean doesn’t even notice his mom coming to stand beside him until he hears her sharp intake of breath.

 

He’s not sure how long the song lasts; probably not more than a few minutes, but it feels like hours.

 

When the final note ends, Castiel’s hands sinks to his lap and he keeps staring at the piano, as if whatever hes seeing in the keys scares him.

 

“That was…”This time, Dean’s the one struggling for the appropriate words.

 

“That was stunning” his mom smiles. “How long have you been taking lessons?”

 

“I stopped when I was twelve,” Castiel says, mostly to the piano. “My piano tutor said that while I had grace, I lacked soul.”

 

“What a dick.”

 

“Dean!”

 

Castiel’s head turns to Dean so suddenly it must have been painful.

 

Dean folds his arms over his chest and huffs, “Well, it’s true. What sort of teacher says that to a twelve year old?”

 

His mom presses her lips to a thin line, but Dean sees amusement hiding in the corner of her lips.

 

“That was really awesome,” Dean says and enjoys the warm thrill in his chest when he sees Castiel actually blush.

 

 

“So…this is my room,” Dean says as he nudges the door open . Castiel steps cautiously inside, as if he’s afraid of disturbing the clutter on Dean’s floor.

 

“Oh, right, I haven’t   really…”Dean presses past Castiel and pushes the pile of dirty laundry under his bed, kicks a couple of shoes into a corner and stuffs his magazine into the bookshelf, “tidied, in a while. Sorry.”

 

“It’s nice,” Castiel says and if Dean wasn’t becoming something of an expert in speaking, well… _Castiel,_ he’d not been able to read the sincerity in his schooled features.

 

“Just sit down wherever.”

 

Castiel takes the chair by the desk and Dean flops down onto his bed. In his peripheral vision he sees Castiel glancing about his room, his eyes lingering on the poster of a voluptuous model draped over the hood of a Mustang. Dean searches Castiel’s face for the emotion he expects to find hidden there. Interest. Disgust?

 

He sees Castiel swallow, and then avert his gaze to his backpack. “Should we start with our homework?”

 

“Let’s relax for a minute,” Dean says, folding his arms behind his head and stretching the length of his bed.

 

“I…”Castiel starts, and for a moment Dean wonders if Castiel is going to admit that he doesn’t really know how to relax.

 

“Did you mean what you said, about my piano tutor?”

 

“That he’s a dick? Of course.”

 

“No,” Dean can hear the small smile in his voice, “about finding him and…telling him.”

 

“Oh. Sure.”

 

Suddenly Castiel is at the side of his bed, leaning over him, his face just inches from Dean’s. His breath ghosts over Dean’s skin, hot and moist.

 

“Can we?”

 

Dean recognizes the importance of the question and all the layers upon layers of meaning behind it. He has no control of what leaps past the lump in his throat.

 

“Yes.”

 

Which is marginally better than the “God, yes,” that Dean really wanted to say.

 

Castiel’s face creases into a smile, and for one terrifying heartbeat Dean wonders what he’s actually agreed to.

 

“This Friday, after school?”

 

Dean summons every last shred of restraint he has to keep his hands firmly behind is head and not sliding across Castiel’s cheeks, to the back of his neck, into his hair and-

 

“What?” he croaks, his brain scrambling to find solid footing.

 

“Can we go visit my piano tutor, Friday after school? Will you come with me?”

 

“Yeah, sure, whatever.”

 

“Thank you, Dean.”

 

And then, Castiel places a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. It’s a fleeting gesture, but Dean can feel the imprint of Castiel’s fingers against the layer of clothes. His pulse hammers against his skin.

 

Dean feels Castiel pull away and his room suddenly feels cold.

 

“May I use your restroom?”

 

“Down the hall, third door to the right.”

 

As soon as the door slams shut, Dean turns over and buries his head into his pillow, hoping it might do him the favor of suffocating him and ending the fantasy playing out  in the back of his mind. Jesus Christ, he’s certain that he just came seconds away from actually kissing Castiel.

 

Much later, Dean really wishes he had told his mom about his suspicions when had the chance.


	8. Chapter eight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for being such a slow writer, you guys are wonderful for sticking by me. <3
> 
> Special thanks to my amazing Anonymous Beta- I feel privilege to know you and have you help me with this story, thank you.

Warning for spoilers for the Lord of the Rings.

 

**Chapter eight.**

 

“So where does your piano tutor live?”

 

Castiel looks up from his biology homework.

 

“From what I could find out, in a retirement home about four hours from here.” He dives back behind his textbook and quickly adds, “I understand if that’s too far and-”

 

Dean’s mind  instantly whirls with the thought of eight hours alone with Castiel in the small confines of the car. His heart skips a beat.

 

“-we don’t have to go,” Castiel finishes.

 

“I was thinking maybe we should go on Saturday instead and make a road trip out of it.”

 

“A road trip?” Castiel gives him a squinty look, as if Dean is suddenly speaking in a foreign language.

 

“Road trip. Good music, junk food, miles and miles of smooth highway. You should spend the night here so we could get an early start on Saturday morning.”

 

“Spend the night?”

 

“Like…” Dean swallows and rubs the back of his neck as if he can wipe away the blush that’s already spreading across his cheeks. “Like a sleep over.”

 

“Oh, that sounds wonderful,” Castiel says as though Dean just announced he’s hung the moon and the stars.

 

Dean clears his throat and this time he’s the one who seeks refuge behind the covers of his homework. When was he going to get his internal fourteen-year-old girl back into the box where it belonged?

 

“I’ll just have to clear it with my parents first,” Dean says.

 

 

 

Whatever musical magic Castiel coaxed out of the old piano seems to have eased his mom’s reservations about Castiel. She still looks a little dubious at Dean’s plan, though.

 

“You know your father and I have plans Friday night.”

 

“ That’s okay,” Dean says, trying to sound more confident than he feels. “We’ll just order pizza, watch some movies,no biggie.”

 

“As long as you include your brother.”

 

“Sure, I’ll save the squirt a slice.”

 

“And you’ll bring your phone with you and keep it charged. You have to drive safely, the weather is unpredictable this time of year And you’ll let me know when you’ve arrived.”

 

Dean does roll his eyes this time.

 

“Yes,  Mom. I’ll be careful.”

 

The corners of her mouth crease to a smile and Dean worries that his mom has suddenly gained access to the innermost corner of his mind.

 

“It’s very kind of you to suggest a trip like this-” there’s a pregnant pause, “is there something you’d like to talk about?”

 

“Um…not really. Thanks, I’ll see you later, Mom!” Dean calls over his shoulder and hurries out of the kitchen, away from the knowing look in his mother’s eyes.

 

 

 

Dean isn’t sure if Friday evening came too quickly or not soon enough. He’s been walking around with a swarm of butterflies in his stomach all week.

 

“I wasn’t really sure what movies you liked,” Dean gestures to the collection of DVDs spread out on the living room floor. “So, I just went with the classics. You got _Star Wars, Indiana Jones, Ghost Busters, The Lord of the Rings_ and….”

 

Castiel bends down and picks up _The Empire Strikes_ back. He turns it around in his hands, peering at the cover before he exchanges it for _The Last Crusade_.

 

He gives Dean a helpless look.

 

“I don’t know any of these,” he confesses. “Whichever you prefer will be fine.”

 

Sam looks absolutely stricken.

 

“You’ve never seen _Star Wars?_ ”

 

Dean thinks about the cavernous living room in Castiel’s house with walls covered in nothing but books. He thinks about Castiel’s sterile room and the computer without access to the Internet. He wonders what else Castiel has missed out on.

 

“Which is fine,” Dean hurries to add when he sees the sudden ache in Castiel’s eyes.

 

“I read _Lord of the Rings_ in the library last summer,” Castiel offers, immediately endearing himself further to Sam.

 

“That’s one of my favorite books,” Sam says, his lanky frame vibrating with enthusiasm. “What’s your favorite character?”

 

Castiel clasps his hands at the small of his back and tilts his head a little, mulling the question over.

 

“I liked the main character, Samwise Gamgee.”

 

“Sam’s not the main character- the book is from Frodo’s point of view, it’s Frodo’s quest.”

 

“Sam’s the one who changes the most,” Castiel says calmly, “from the eavesdropping gardener yanked in through the window to the ring bearer. Frodo goes off to the Undying Lands, but the conclusion is of Sam returning home, starting a family. It’s his three words that end the story.”

 

Sam looks torn between arguing his point and declaring Castiel his new bestest friend ever. Dean’s heart squirms jealously. It’s not that Dean begrudges Sam and Castiel becoming friends- it’s just that Castiel was Dean’s friend first.

 

“Guess we’re watching the _Lord of the Rings_ , then,” Dean says, hoping to stop any protest from Sam. “But we’ve won’t be able to marathon all three of them if we’re going to be up early tomorrow.”

 

Which means that there’s the potential for more movie nights with Castiel.

 

“I’ll make popcorn and grab some drinks.” Sam disappears into the kitchen and returns with a steaming bowl and three bottles just as Cate Blanchett’s deep voice fills the room.

 

Sam grabs a pillow and flops down on the floor, leaving Dean to choose between the armchair in the corner of the room and sitting next to Castiel and suddenly the room feels terribly warm. Dean is still standing by the time Gandalf rolls into the Shire.

 

“Aren’t you going to take a seat, Dean?”

 

“Right,” Dean shakes away his ridiculous thoughts. He miscalculates and ends up closer to Castiel than he intends, their arms and legs touching and Dean freezes- waiting for Castiel to push him away or demand to know why Dean almost ended up in his lap. If Castiel thinks there is anything strange with Dean’s sudden proximity, he doesn’t say anything, just keeps his eyes locked on the television screen.

 

Castiel devours the movie with his eyes. Dean spends most of it studying the lights play on Castiel’s face, watching his expression shift between amusement and fear. He almost jumps out of his seat when Castiel’s fingers dig into his arm as the Fellowship is chased through Moria. Dean can feel the imprint of Castiel’s slender fingers and the warmth from his palm through the fabric of his shirt. Castiel’s hand is still on his arm when Frodo and Sam break from the Fellowship and Dean wishes the movie wasn’t over yet.

 

“What do you think, Castiel?” Sam twists around to glance at them and Dean jumps to his feet.

 

“I’m gonna grab the last slice of pizza,” he shouts and seeks cover in the kitchen.

 

They say their goodnights without either mentioning the almost-hand-holding and Dean sets his alarm for six-am. He falls asleep to the soft sound of Castiel’s breaths.

 

 

Waking up the next morning is a grueling affair and an unpleasant reminder of the week he did Sam’s paper route. They dress and eat breakfast in hushed tones, careful not to wake the rest of the household.

 

Outside, the crisp air brings tears to Dean’s eyes and he hurries to the car for warmth. Castiel opens the backdoor and carefully places his bag on the floor of the car before slipping into the front seat. Dean shivers ,tucking his hands under his armpits.

 

“What is the bag?”

 

“Supplies,” Castiel  succinctly replies .

 

“Supplies?”

 

“Like, something to drink, some food and….”

 

“You brought your homework, didn’t you?”

 

Castiel frowns. “It’s your homework too, Dean. I thought I could like…read to you.”

 

Dean fiddles with the lever to adjust the seat to hide his expression. He can’t believe he’s contemplating letting….letting Castiel read their goddamned homework to him.

 

On a Saturday.

 

“There’s a Golden Rule to road trips,” Dean declares, adjusting the rearview mirror.

 

“Rule?” Castiel looks at Dean, and Dean can feel his neck prickle under the intensity of Castiel’s gaze.

 

“Driver picks the music,” Dean says, putting a cassette into the radio, “shotgun shuts his cake hole.”

 

Dean slips the car into gear and rolls out of the driveway. It’s a hazy Saturday morning with the promise of rain. But the roads are dry and empty and after the emotional roller coaster of last night, Dean is glad to finally be behind the wheel of his car, with the beat of the music in his fingertips, nothing but open roads ahead.

 

And of course, Castiel sitting so close he could easily reach out and touch him. If he dared to.

 

They’ve been driving for almost ten minutes when Castiel says, “I really like the violin-bow interlude, it goes well with the echoes- it’s rather haunting,” Castiel turns to look out the window. “Chilling.”

 

“You should see the live version, sometime. Page is a genius.”

 

“What is this song called?”

 

“This is a live recording of _The Song Remains the Same_ by Led Zeppelin.” Dean steals a glance at Castiel in his peripheral vision, and sees his eyes large and pale.

 

Dean wonders if the music is actually frightening or if he’s dreading seeing his piano tutor again.

 

He’s about to change the cassette to something less intense when Castiel breaks the silence.

 

“I’ve never heard this kind of music before, it is different then anything I’ve known. I rather enjoy it, do you have more like this Led Zeppelin?”

 

Dean grins. “We’ve got all day to introduce you to the best of classic rock.”

 

“I like all the things you are introducing me to,” Castiel says. “I didn’t think….”

 

“Hm?”

 

Dean steals a quick glance at Castiel before returning his attention back on the road. Castiel’s eyes have gone hard and flinty.

 

“It’s nothing.”

 

 

They make the drive with one break for lunch and without Castiel taking out their biology homework. Castiel’s an excellent driving companion; he doesn’t try to make small talk with Dean. In fact, he spends most of the journey staring out the window and only  occasionally commenting on the music. By the time Castiel has directed him to a white brick building, they’ve gone through most of Dean’s favorite music and Dean’s no closer to naming the pleasant thrill Castiel sparks in his chest.

 

They stumble out of the car and Castiel stretches, a long luxurious movement with his hands high above his head, his back arched until Dean could see the knobs of his spine and the still fading bruise from Alistair’s foot.

 

“I have something to confess.”  

 

Dean immediately feels something cold and hard settle in his stomach.

 

“Yeah?” he says, careful not to slam the car door.

 

“I…” Castiel knots his fingers together, and then he glares as his shoes as if they are to blame for whatever Castiel’s done that requires Dean’s forgiveness.

 

“My piano tutor doesn’t live here.”

 

And. What?

 

“So we drove all day to a random nursing home?”

 

“No,” Castiel squares his shoulders like he’s gathering his courage. “I…don’t really care about my piano tutor, but…” Castiel blinks and blinks and then he twists away, but not before Dean can see the tears Castiel is struggling to keep at bay.

 

“My brother lives here, and I…I’ve not seen him in a long time and I wanted to, but- I don’t have a liscence.”

 

Dean glances over at the low building, lines of square windows stretches out from both ends of the large and rows of weeds and dead plants trails along the wall. There’s trash in between the plants. A faded blue door with the word “ Entrance” is spelled in large block letters. Further along a white sign reads: “Haven Retirement Home.”

 

It looks more like a prison.

 

“Your….brother?”

 

“His name is James. He’s seven years older than me.”

 

Sometimes  clarity is a nasty gift.

 

“Oh,” Dean says, because he’s suddenly lost the ability to string coherent sentences together because he’s picturing Sam sent to live with a bunch of senile, old people and it makes him feel sick.  

 

“He’s…” Castiel hands have suddenly gone white, and Dean reaches over to untwine them. His fingers are cold and trembling.

 

“It’s cool,” Dean says, even thought it’s anything but. Castiel presses his lips together to a thin line and then he glances down at his hands, still in Dean’s. Dean feels his fingers curl against this palm.

 

“We’re friends, Castiel, you could have just told me the truth.”

 

Castiel shuffles his feet, “I didn’t think you’d want to spend your Saturday visiting my brother at-”

”-well, you can, you  know, trust me with stuff…” Dean trails off before he navigates himself too deeply into chick-flick territory. His eyes slides along Castiel´s face to his eyes.

 

Castiel huffs and averts his gaze, ”if you say so, Dean.”

 

”I do,” Dean says,“let’s go say hello to your brother.”

 

He doesn’t let go of Castiel’s hand, nor does Castiel pull his away from Dean’s.

 

The inside of Haven Retirement Home is as depressing as the outside. The linoleum floor sticks to Dean’s feet and reeks of chlorine. An old man is shouting something in a payphone as a bored nurse watches. .

 

Castiel walks straight to the admission’s counter, only letting go of Dean’s fingers to sign his name in a large green book.

 

“I would like to visit James Novak,” Castiel tells the pasty looking youth behind the counter.

 

“He’s probably in the common room.”

 

“I have some things for him as well. Where-”

 

“The nurses station is the second door to the right.”

 

Castiel looks down the corridor and, with a fleeting glance at Dean, heads on down. Dean follows.

 

They are met at the nurses’ station by a solemn looking woman who pats Castiel on the back with such force he almost stumbles.

 

“Been a while, Castiel Novak,” she says with a frown that Dean thinks is meant to be stern.

 

“I come as often as I am allowed-”

 

“Yes, hon. I know.” The nurse turns to Dean, “I’m Nurse Mosley. I assume you’re Castiel’s friend?”   

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Good,” she says with finality. Her voice softens as she turns back to Castiel.

 

“I have something for James.” Castiel lifts his backpack onto the desk. He opens it and shows her the shirts, underwear and tube socks Dean saw Castiel shop lift almost three weeks ago. There is something really messed up when you have to steal clothes for your own brother.

 

Nurse Mosley smiles encouragingly. “That’s kind of you, hon. I’ll lend you my permanent marker so you can write his name in them. Won’t do to have them get lost in laundry. I’ve also some papers you may want to read.”

 

Castiel nods and starts to unpack the shirts. Nurse Mosley turns to Dean again and this time, she firmly steers him out of the room.  

 

“Why don’t I take you to the common room? There are chairs and a TV.” ”

 

“Shouldn’t we wait for Castiel?”

 

“There are  some private things I need to talk to Castiel about. I hope you understand. .”

 

“Oh, okay, that’s cool.”

 

Nurse Mosley guides him down a corridor of open blue doors and Dean glimpses the various occupants inside  as he passes. Old people slouched in chairs, staring blankly at televisions, listening to staticy radios, or lying in their beds, eyes fixed on peeling ceilings . Dean shudders.  He doesn’t know if he’s ever seen anything so depressing.

 

The common room is a wide room with indistinguishably colored paintings of landscapes and animals.  There’s a wall mounted television  and a cheap looking bookcase filled with worn paperbacks.  

 

It’s easy to spot Castiel’s brother- he’s the only young person in the room.

 

“If it’s okay, I’ll say hi to James while I wait,” Dean says.

 

“Sure, I think he’d like that. Just try and stay positive around him,” Nurse Mosley replies in a low voice.  “He’s really perceptive and he tends to pick up on other people’s emotions.”

 

Right. Positive.

 

How the hell do you stay positive when you’re stuck in a place like this?

 

“I’ll leave you too it,” Nurse Mosley says cheerfully and abandons Dean.

 

    Dean furtively studies James as he pulls up a chair and sits down. Castiel had said his brother was only seven years older but James looks like a man in his eighties. His gray shirt is stained, his hair is cut in a military style buzzcut, and he smells like he hasn’t bathed in awhile.

 

Dean swallows down his panic at the awkward silence. “Um, hello.” 

 

 James doesn’t even look up from where he’s struggling to color a picture of a bee and a flower. Dean’s seen the same look of concentration on Castiel when he’s tackling his Latin homework.     

 

“So…I’m Dean.”

 

James inches a bit further forward, hiding his picture with his arms.

 

Alright, then.

 

Dean glances nervously about the room.There’s a sad looking man in a wheelchair staring forlornly out the dirty window and a couple of old ladies on a faded pea green sofa silently watching some sort of cooking show on TV. Another man in torn hospital pajamas is  busy ranting at a potted plant. The air in the room is heavy and musky and it makes Dean  queasy.

 

Christ almighty.

 

Dean balls his hands into fists, hoping to anchor his flight response.

 

“Something the matter?”

 

Dean  looks back in surprise and is met with James’s blank stare    . James shares Castiel’s blue eyes but the similarity ends there. While Castiel’s eyes are awhirl with emotions, James’s are distant and void.

 

“No,no,” Dean says, remembering Nurse Mosley’s warning  to stay positive. “Things are cool- I mean, things are fine.” He tries to smile reassuringly, worried about what will happen if James doesn’t buy his act.

 

“Fine,” James mimics as he looks    over Dean’s shoulder. Dean twists around and sees Castiel with Nurse Mosley. Castiel throws them his best smile but Dean can see the worry behind it.

 

Jame´s eyes flashes in anger and he plunges his pencil  viciously through the picture.

 

“Cassie is not fine.”

 

And Dean can’t help but think that there’s a confession buried beneath the disclosure.

 

 


	9. Chapter nine.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some angst, some kissing and stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My wonderful Beta has worked her magic on this chapter, I really hope you enjoy it as much as I do.
> 
> Thanks for all the kudos and comments, they mean the world to me.

**Chapter nine.**

Being a minor, Castiel is not allowed to take James out of the retirement home, but there is nothing in the rules about bringing   pizza to James. Dean had gladly volunteered to pick it up. He wanted to give the two brothers some privacy, but he also needed some fresh air to wash away the stench of chlorine that was seeped into the linoleum floor.

“I’m back,” Dean calls. He places the pizza on the rickety table in the middle of the room, and shoves a piece of paper under one leg to keep it from wobbling. The room is empty but from the bathroom, Dean can hear the shower running. “Hey, Castiel?”

 

“Just a minute,” Castiel shouts.

Dean idles over to a bookshelf, the only furniture in the room that doesn’t look like  it belongs in a hospital. There are only a few books in it and most of them are early learners books about animals, numbers and letters. But in-between them Dean spots books on astronomy and space travel. Castiel must be responsible for those. He can’t help wonder if Castiel also stole them.

There’s one book that stands apart from the others, because it’s small and bound in leather. It looks exactly like the one Castiel was clutching that first time Dean saw him in the park.

He slides it out and flips it open. Inside the cover is written in a delicate, flowing script: “To my son James, all my love, Anna.”

Dean quickly slides the book back into its slot as though it’s burned him.

He stuffs his hands into his pocket and glances about the room. On the ceiling above the bed, he sees the faint outline of yellow stars, the kind that glow in the dark. Sam had the same in his room when he was eight.   

Taped on one wall is a bunch of brightly colored drawings of bees and fishes.   Dean picks it up a stray paper on the floor  He feels something heavy and solid settling in his chest when his eyes fall on the image It’s a picture of three fishes, one large with a red tail and two smaller ones. It’s almost impossible to discern them under the dark and red vortex James has carved into the picture.

“Dean?”

Dean quickly stuffs the picture away into his pocket and dredges up his best smile.

Castiel has an arm wrapped around his brother’s shoulder. James’ short hair is still wet and dripping water onto the collar of his clean shirt. There’s a small piece of tissue stuck to his neck, probably from where Castiel   cut him while shaving. They look nice, like proper brothers.

“Hold a moment,” Dean says, fishing up his phone, “let me take a picture of you guys.”

Before either can say anything, Dean snaps a picture , pretty pleased with the result, even if they both look like deer caught in   headlights.

“You guys ready for pizza?”

“I love pizza!” James declares, his face creasing into the first real smile Dean has seen. The lump in his chest grows.

“I’ll just hunt down a third chair,” Dean says, grateful for the excuse to leave the room.

It takes him a moment to get his vortex of emotion under control. Right. Stay positive. When he steps back into the room, it’s with a sincere smile.

Dean eats his pizza while listening to Castiel recite an article about the discovery of water on Mars and how he plans to save up for a telescope so that they can watch the stars. Throughout the meal, James clings to Castiel’s hand.

They clear away the food and Dean ends up playing Ludo with James while Castiel sets about cleaning James’   room. His motions are agitated, scrubbing the window    so hard that it thrums against Castiel’s shoulders. Dean does his best to distract James from his brother’s mood. He may not be able to read  everything in the set of James’ shoulders, but his pale eyes provide full translation.  

 

It’s almost six in the evening before they start back home. They drive in silence for almost half an hour before Dean dares to steals a glance over to Castiel. He watches how the lights from passing cars sweep over Castiel, making his skin glow in an unnatural yellow hue. He’s staring out the window, looking exhausted and brittle in a way that not even Led Zeppelin can’t cure.

“It was a traffic accident,” Castiel’s voice is distant, like he’s talking to somebody else.

“ What was?”

“My mother, Anna,” Castiel says, “she died in a traffic accident and James….James, well, he sorta died a little as well.”

Dean tightens his grip on the wheel.

“I don’t really remember much of it, I was only four. My foster father told me Anna was picking up James from his piano practice and they were hit by a drunk driver.”

Dean’s not sure what to say to that so he settles on something safe.  

“James played the piano too?”

“My foster father always says that James had the real talent- like Julliard talent.”

“That’s…”

“I’m sorry”  seems inadequate, even if it is what people say in these situations. Dean clears his throat, once, twice before he finds something to break the silence.

“Did you and your foster-father move here after the accident?”

Castiel’s head dips in a quick nod.

“I begged to be closer to James.”

He’s still four hours away, Dean thinks, and Castiel doesn’t have a license. How long has it been since Castiel saw his brother last? Dean doesn’t want to ask, too afraid that the answer would break his heart. He can’t even imagine being parted from Sam for months at a time.

“I don’t really remember my mother. Just, like…glimpses that I can’t really be sure are real or imagined. After she died, my foster father began traveling more for his job. Sometimes I’d be alone for hours.”

Dean swallows. “That sucks.”

“I remember one time  when I was five or six- I was alone for a whole weekend. But, you know, at least he left a bag of oatmeal for me on the floor.”

Dean forces the lump in his throat back down to his stomach.

“Well, if you’re ever alone, you can always come hang around at our place,” Dean offers.

Castiel twists in his seat, staring at Dean intently as if  to decide whether   Dean is sincere or not. There’s no shelter from that gaze. Dean wipes his sweaty palms along the steering wheel to try and wipe them off.  

“Thank you, Dean,”  Castiel says solemnly.

“Anytime, Castiel.”

Around nine, the weather turns foul and the window wipers struggle   to keep the window clear. Dean pulls up outside Castiel’s house about an hour later  . The porch light is on, but the rest of the house is dark and the driveway is empty.

“So….I’ll see you on Monday,” Dean says.

“Thank you for today, Dean. I had a nice time.”

“I did too,” Dean replies and feels a fleeting pressure as Castiel’s hand lands on his shoulder.

“Good night, Dean,” Castiel says softly, his hand slipping away. Dean wants to reach out and make contact, but he doesn’t trust his hands to heed his head and not his heart.

“Good night.”

Dean watches Castiel scramble  out   the car and then sprint the short distance to the main entrance, his bag held above his head to shield him from the rain. He stops at the door, turns and waves. Dean puts the car in gear and pulls out into the empty street, watching the porch light fade from the rearview mirror.

**  
  
  
  
**

Unable to sleep, Dean twists and turns as      his mind  whirls with  images. James’ drawing of three fishes under all that angry blackness. The dead garden around the retirement home. Castiel washing the window in James’  room. Castiel’s hand  in his.  He squeezes his eyes shut until the only thing he senses is the sound of the rain  pounding against the roof, the wind pulling at the trees in the yard, somebody throwing pebbles at his window.

He’s suddenly wide awake as he swings himself off his bed. Yes. There it is again. The sound of something hard hitting his window. Dean searches through his messy desk drawers   until he finds the flashlight. It needs a couple of shakes before it comes alive. H Pulling the curtains back, Dean opens the window and shines the pale light  into the darkness. The flashlight beam reveals a shivering Castiel, wet hair plastered against his face and arms wrapped around himself to stave off the chilly wind.

“What are you-” Dean starts, “Christ, go to the front door!”

Dean opens the door and Castiel stumbles in. Never before has the expression “wet as a drowned cat,” been more appropriate. Water is running in rivulets along his jacket, his shoes squelch with each movement.

“You said I could come over if-…..”  Castiel stutters through clattering teeth, blinking water out of his eyes, “…..the door was locked and I couldn’t get in… I…I don’t have a house key.”

“That’s not really what I-” Dean starts, biting back the words at the sudden ache in Castiel’s eyes.

“Yeah, of course. Jeeez, you must be freezing.”

Dean helps Castiel peel  his jacket off, pulling his hands back  when he touches Castiel’s icy skin. The warning signs of hypothermia skim along Dean’s memory.

“You should take a hot shower, and I’ll find you some dry clothes.”

“It’s fine-” Castiel protests weakly.

 

“It’s really not. Come on.” He nudges Castiel towards the staircase and watches as Castiel  hauls himself up, each movement slow and sluggish, as though he’s climbing a mountain and  not just steps to the second floor.

“Down here, third door to your right past.”

“Dean?”  A pajama clad Sam is standing in the open doorway to his room,  yawing and rubbing his eyes sleepily.  

“Just-” Dean nudges Castiel down the corridor towards the bathroom and Castiel complies, his socks making damp impressions in the carpet as he shuffles past.

“Is that Castiel?” Sam asks, suddenly wide-awake.

“Yeah, he’s…just-”

“Why is he so wet? Why is he here at-what time is it?”

“It’s late, you should be in bed,” Dean places a hand on Sam’s shoulder and twirls him around, “hop to it, Sammy.”

Sam shrugs his hand off. “No, tell me what’s going on.”

“Just…play it cool.”

Sam glances down the corridor and then turns to his brother. He narrows his eyes. Dean can positively see the little cogs churning in that gigantic brain of his.

“Play it cool?”

“And don’t tell Mom and Dad.”

“Only if you drive Jess  and me to the movies next Saturday- and pick us up, and  give us money for popcorn.”

Dean stares at his little brother, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that he’s finally managed to ask a girl out on a date and become something of a blackmailer in the same sentence.

“Who the heck is Jess ?”

Sam blushes furiously and adds, “and   you’ll cover for Mom and Dad.”

“Fine, fine, whatever.”

“Sweet!” Sam sniggers and withdraws back to his bedroom.

**  
  
**

Dean sighs and heads to the bathroom, placing a pile of clothes outside the door.  “There’s some dry clothes for you out here,” he calls. “Just leave your wet stuff on the floor.”  

There’s no reply and Dean lingers outside for a few awkward minutes, debating with himself the pros and cons of making sure Castiel got his message.

He ends up back in his bedroom instead, staring at James’ picture that he’s been carrying around in his pocket all day. The thick feeling in his chest returns and Dean shoves the drawing into the bottom of a drawer. Out of sight, out of mind. He climbs into bed as he hears the bathroom door open.

“Dean?” Castiel silently makes his way into the bedroom, bare toes curling against the carpet.  

“You warm  yet?” Dean asks.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Castiel shuffles his feet, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his gaze locked on the carpet.  “I can, I can sleep on the floor.”

“No, that’s- I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“I’ve inconvenienced you enough,” Castiel says, low and hoarse.

In a moment of bravery, or insanity, Dean yanks back the cover on his bed.

“It’ll be warmer and we’ll both be comfortable.”

Castiel hesitates for a moment, his eyes darting from Dean to the bed, his gaze calculating. In the end, he crawls into the bed and curls up on one end, his face towards the door and his back to Dean.

Dean slides under the cover, keeping as much distance between himself and Castiel as he can. It’s an effort to keep his voice steady when he asks, “Warm enough?”

“Yes,” a pause, “thank you.”

 They lie next to each other, their    breaths, steady and in sync, the only sound in the room. Dean feels like his heart is trying to claw its way out of his throat as he tries to figure out how they ended up here and where, exactly, here is.

“Dean?”

“Yeah,” he answers, trying to keep his voice steady, “what’s up?”

Dean feels the bed shift and dip as Castiel moves, and he flickers his gaze to his left. Castiel has turned and is now facing him, both hands tucked under his head. Dean quickly steers his gaze back to the safety of the ceiling.

He feels  rather than sees Castiel’s hand slide across the sheet until it touches Dean’s shoulder. He can feel the imprint of every inch of Castiel’s palm against his skin. His heart thrills in his chest.

Dean moves his hand to touch Castiel’s at his shoulder. He feels the muscles in Castiel’s fingers bunch and flex against his. But the angle is awkward and uncomfortable and he ends up twisting to his side until he mirrors  Castiel’s position.

He spreads his hand along Castiel’s elbow, holding it there, gently.

Dean dips his head until only inches separate  them. Castiel’s breath brushes against his nose in small, warm puffs of air. He wants to ask for permission, but the words tangle  in his throat. In the dim light, his gaze finds Castiel’s fathomless eyes  and he sees something different in their depths. Then Castiel’s head moves in the smallest of nods.

The seconds that follow  are a small forever. He presses his lips to Castiel’s, warm and firm. Castiel is still for one terrifying heartbeat where Dean thinks he’s going to be shoved away.   But then he feels a hand on his cheek, fingers spreading and sliding down to the nape of his neck, drawing them closer together.

Dean quickly forgets that it’s not a girl’s soft  curves   he’s got pressed against him. Castiel is firm and square. His knees are knobby where they press against Dean’s, the hair on his legs coarse and there’s the uncomfortable scratch of a toenail against his shin.  But Castiel is also warm and pliant against him, his lips parting   as Dean nips and licks at the seam of his mouth until he forgot everything else.

They part and Dean feels a shiver riding along Castiel’s bodyas something shifts on his face.

“Hey, something wrong?” Dean asks, sliding his hands away from Castiel’s. Castiel’s fingers immediately chases after his, grabbing onto them with the grip of a drowning man.

“No, it’s fine” Castiel says. He places a soft, almost timid, kiss on Dean’s cheek. It’s achingly sweet and Dean’s glad it’s dark enough to hide his blush.

“Because you can tell me-”

Castiel presses his lips to Dean’s, swallowing the rest of his words.  They trade kisses, languid and tender until Castiel’s closes his eyes and burrows his face in the crook of Dean’s neck.

Dean fights a brief, losing battle with his head and heart. He wants to tell Castiel that he knows things aren’t fine, that they aren’t supposed to be like this, that his mom’s friend works for Social Services and that Castiel shouldn’t live in a house where there are bars on his window or  with a foster father who abandons him with nothing but a packet of cereal. That he doesn’t need to hide in the park every morning. That he recognized the true meaning behind James’s confession. Castiel is not fine.

He thinks about Zachariah’s hard,  flinty eyes. What if his mom won’t believe him? There needs to be evidence for this kind of things, right? Will Castiel deny it? If he says anything, will things get worse for Castiel?

Dean swallows the words down to his stomach where they settle, heavy and sharp.

“Alright,” he allows. He curls his around Castiel’s waist, holding him there. He lies still, staring at the shadows moving outside his window and feeling Castiel blink against his skin, feels the collar of his shirt become wet.

**  
  
  
**

When he wakes, the bed is empty and the rain is still hammering relentlessly against his window. It takes his mind a couple of seconds to click into gear.

He kissed Castiel last night.

Castiel kissed him back.

Dean’s hand scrambles across the bed and feels the spot next to his that is still warm.

They shared a bed.

Thank god, his parents are still away.

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, the memory of Castiel’s hand on his shoulder, his fingers in his hair and his lips against his vibrant in his mind.

Castiel kissed him back.

Despite his happiness, Dean’s mind whirls with questions. Will there be more kisses? What does this mean to their relationship? Was this just Castiel seeking comfort  ? Crap. Did he take advantage of Castiel’s emotional state?

Castiel had kissed him back.  

Dean swings his legs over the side of the bed and pulls on a fresh pair of socks and a hoodie against the chill. He descends the stairs to the sound of Castiel and Sam discussing something that sounds like Latin homework. He  pauses  by the mirror in the corridor, just to  make sure he’s not letting this ridiculously gleeful feeling   show on his face.

“Good morning, Dean,” Castiel says, his voice still deep and rough from sleep. He hides his gaze in his cereal, but it gives Dean a clear view of the color spreading along the back of his neck.

“ Hey, Dean,” Sam says, “Castiel was just telling me about this really useful book on Latin grammar that he’s going to let me borrow. Isn’t    that  cool?”

Dean squints at Sam and then at the numbers on the microwave.

“Jeeze, it’s   10 am on a Sunday, think you can put a lid on your academic enthusiasm until noon?”

Sam scoffs, but he’s grinning  as he returns to his comic.

Dean fills a bowl with cornflakes and takes a seat next to Castiel, casually bumping his knee. Across the table, Sam is positively vibrating with suppressed questions. Dean’s never been more grateful for his brother’s loyalty to one of their deals.

“What did you end up doing yesterday with your whole house to yourself? If you threw any parties, I’m gotta say I’m impressed by your ability to hide all the evidence.”

“I watched movies,” Sam shrugs.

“You mean,” Dean points an accusatory spoon at Sam, “you watched that BBC documentary on the penguins, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t!”

“Uh-huh,” Dean turns to Castiel’s confused expression, suddenly remembering that Castiel doesn’t have a TV. “Sam’s really into this show about penguins, last time he saw it he was bawling his eyes out-”

“The baby penguin freezes to death, Dean!”

“He was depressed for a whole week and-”

“And then the sea lion-”

“You get far too caught up in these things, Sammy, it’s why you aren’t allowed to watch nature documentaries.”

“Well,” Sam declares triumphantly, “I know for a fact that you cried when-”

“You’re threading on thin ice, Sammy,” Dean hisses.

Castiel stares between the two of them in wide-eyed silence.

After breakfast is cleared away, Dean declares that because it’s Sunday and it’s raining, they should make good on their promise to watch the complete   Lord of the Rings trilogy, even though Castiel insists that they should spend their time studying biology.  But Castiel can’t resist the temptation of watching the Fellowship and by the time the prelude has finished, he’s glued to the screen.

They echo their seats from Friday evening, and after a few minutes Castiel tangles his fingers with Dean’s, and Dean strokes the back of his hand with his thumb.

A few minutes into The Return of the King,    they hear the front door open.  . Castiel freezes and hurriedly pulls his hand free,    tucking it under his armpit as though he’s afraid there’s any visible evidence.

“Sam? Dean?”

“Chill,” Dean says, “it’s just Mom and Dad. I’m allowed to have friends over, just relax.”

Castiel doesn’t look fully convinced and his gaze keeps flickering nervously from the movie to the doorway.

“In here, Mom!” Sam calls, pausing the movie.

Mary appears in the doorway, her shoulders slumped under the burden of her heavy raincoat.

“Did you both behave…..oh, hello, Castiel. I didn’t realize you were here.  .”

Castiel rises from the sofa and for a second Dean thinks he’s actually going to bow  . But he just stands there, his back trembling with tension.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Winchester.”

“Please, you can call me Mary,” his mom insists and the corners of her eyes crease  in a smile.

“Boys,” his father calls from the corridor, “ come help   with the suitcases.”

“I’ll go,” Sam offers, perceptive as always.

“Did you boys have a nice trip?” his mom asks as she starts undoing the buttons on her coat.

“Yes, it was very nice,” Castiel says nervously, his eyes finding Dean’s for a moment. Mary follows their gaze, her eyes lands solidly on Dean’s, a slight twist to her lips.

“Good music and good times,” Dean says with a shrug.

“Maybe I should go-” Castiel begins at   the same time   Mary  asks, “You’ll stay for dinner, won’t you? It’s only take out but we always order way too much.”

  

“I…yes,” Castiel hesitates and Dean realizes that maybe his mom is the best in the world. He really should really give her a hug or take out the garbage more often or something.

“Who’s this?” John appears behind Mary, standing almost a head taller than her. Castiel looks like a deer caught in the headlights. His hands ball into fists and Dean can see the muscles in his jaw jump.

“Castiel Novak, sir” he says with all the formality of a soldier at inspection.

John’s eyebrows arches towards his hairline, “I didn’t realize Dean had any friends with manners.”

Dean rolls his eyes.

“Novak, hmm?” John narrows his eyes, seizing him up. “Are you related to Zachariah Novak?”

For a second, Castiel looks like he’s suddenly gotten lost in a mine field, and Dean’s impressed by  how quickly he’s able to rearrange his face into a polite smile.

“He is my foster father, sir.”

John looks suddenly embarrassed, as though he’s pried too deep into Castiel’s personal life.

“I work the security night shift at his firm,” John says, surprising both Dean and Castiel.

“I…” Castiel stutters.

John smiles and pats Dean´s shoulder, “go set the table.

Thirty minutes later, they are seated around a table that’s almost groaning from the  weight of so much Chinese food. Castiel looks like he’s not really sure where to start and Dean ignores the knowing looks Mary and Sam share as he piles sweet and sour pork and fried rice on Castiel’s plate.

They’ve been eating for about ten minutes when John clears his throat.

“So, Castiel, where did you meet Dean what is it you do?”

“ We go to the same school, Mr. Winchester. We have literature, history, P.E and homeroom together,” Castiel says with all the formality of a defense witness testifying in court   .

“He’s in my Latin Club,” Sam adds through a mouth full of eggrolls. “He’s wicked smart.”

Castiel hides his expression behind a glass of water, but not before Dean sees the slight tilt to his mouth.

“What is it you plan to do after high school?” Mary asks.

“Math , maybe,” Castiel admits, “or physics. I enjoy science.”

“If only Dean would share an ounce of your appreciation for sciences then maybe-” John starts, but before Dean can start wishing for a hole to swallow him up, his mom comes to the rescue.

“They’ve got plenty of time to figure out what to do.”

“Dean knows what he wants-”

There’s a sudden, aggressive screech from the doorbell. A few seconds pass , and then the bell cries again, followed by the sound of angry thumping against the front door.

“I’ll get it,” John says with a sharp glance at his sons, ordering them to remain at the table.

Dean glances at Castiel. His fingers are locked around his napkin so hard his knuckles are white. Dean wishes he could just reach over and ease the tension out of Castiel’s grip

There’s some sort of commotion coming from the living room.“Who do you think you are, barging in to my house-” Dean hears John growl .

“Get out of my way, Mr. Winchester.”

Suddenly Zachariah’s tall figure   looms in the kitchen doorway, his face flushed with anger.   

Several things happen at once. Mary stands, moving a little until she’s standing between Zachariah and her sons. Dean rises, moving towards Castiel who has leapt to his feet, overturning his glass of water and spilling it all over Sam’s lap. For a moment Castiel is caught between apologizing to Sam and standing to attention, a look of utter desperation flooding his face.

“Don’t worry,” Sam whispers, “it’s only water.”

“Castiel, there you are. I was worried sick,” Zachariah says, abruptly changing tactics and plastering on   the most insincere expression of concern Dean’s ever seen.

“This is really- ,” Johnfumes, elbowing past an oblivious Zachariah, who’s busy staring at Castiel with narrowed eyes.       Dean is suddenly, horribly, reminded of one of Sam’s stupid nature documentaries  about vipers and their prey .

“Mr. Novak,” John growls, moving to stand beside his wife, “I asked you to wait in the hallway.There was no need to barge in here and interrupt our dinner.”

Zachariah never takes his eyes off Castiel. “I am simply coming to collect my boy. He promised to be home hours ago.”

Castiel’s      eyes are large and pale and his adam’s apple  bobs nervously. Dean remembers the  silent tears on his collar.

“Well,” Dean says, feeling reckless, “you weren’t all that worried about him   last night  .” Dean turns to his mom. “Castiel had to come over here in the middle of the night, in the pouring rain, because he’d been locked out of his own house..”

Mary takes a step forward, but stops when John’s hand comes to  rest on her arm.

Zachariah looks unimpressed.   “Castiel was given a key, if he lost it-” his beady eyes falls on Castiel. His lips press  to a thin line.

“That’s not true-”

“Mom, you can’t let him-”

Dean glances at Castiel who stands, rooted to the spot, hands clenching and unclenching.   Zachariah frowns and ,Castiel lowers his eyes. It’s like they are holding an entire conversation, completely without words.

“Now, we’ve intruded on your hospitality long enough,” Zachariah says,  . Zachariah crosses over  to Castiel and wraps a large hand around his arm.

“Castiel is welcomed here any time,” Mary says, folding her arms over her chest. “We would be happy to drive him home after dinner.”

“We are going home. Now,” Zachariah says, every word seething with anger.

“You don’t have to-” Dean whispers, “you don’t have to do what he says.”

“I…” Castiel starts.He  glances at Zachariah again, and whatever he sees   makes him swallow his words.

“Thank the Winchesters.“

Castiel turns to the family, “Thank you for having me over. I had a wonderful time.”

“You’re welcome, hon,” Mary smiles but her eyes are concerned

“See you in Latin club,” Sam chimes in.

“Yeah,” Dean struggles to find his voice, “see you  Monday.”

Castiel doesn’t say or do anything; he simply lets Zachariah drag him out like a stringless puppet  .

The front door slams shut and  in the resounding stillness, Dean hears the sound of raised voices outside. A car door opens, then slams shut, an engine roars to life and disappears down the road.


	10. Chapter ten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry this chapter took so long to get to you guys, it took me a long time to realize there is a cultural and linguistic difference with the word foster-father, so I shall go back and change it "stepfather" in the previous chapters. Thanks to all of you who have given me your words of encouragement and kudos
> 
> A thousand thanks to my Beta for holding my hand and guiding me through this chapter and the story. It wouldn´t be possible without you.
> 
> Please note that this chapter contains discussions of domestic abuse, bullying and making out in a closet.

**Disclaimer:** Please note that conversation between Dean and Pamela is based on knowledge I have of such organizations in my own country. 

**Warning** **:** discussions of domestic abuse and bullying.

 

 

**Chapter ten.**

 

They eat the rest of the dinner in silence. Dean can only pick at his food and excuses himself as soon as the plates are cleared. He escapes to his room to avoid his mom´s concerned eyes, but finds instead the ghost of Castiel lingering in his sheets.

 

 

“Hi, Dean?”

 

Dean glances up and sees Sam standing the doorway.

 

“Yeah?“

 

“You alright?”

 

Sometimes Dean wishes his brother wasn’t so perceptive, that he’d go to his room and study instead of making Dean confront his feelings.

 

“I’m fine,” Dean answers, aiming for casual and missing it by miles.

 

Sam lingers in the doorway, shuffling his feet and chewing on his lower lip. For a moment he looked more like Sam the kid with the plastic stars on his ceiling than a high school student.

 

“I promise, I’m alright,” Dean tries to sound convincing. “Promise.”

 

“Alright,” Sam concedes and then “maybe you should ask Castiel to go with you to the movies on Saturday.”

 

Dean feels a flutter of panic and tries to suppress it before it reaches his face. Had Sam caught them holding hands? Had he seen how close they sat together on the sofa?

 

“You know, to cheer him up,” Sam says slowly, as if Dean is being particularly obtuse, “I’m guessing he could use an evening away from that douche father of his.”

 

Dean releases a silent sigh.

 

“Oh. Yeah, sure,” and then adds automatically, “he’s Castiel’s stepfather, actually.”

 

“That explains the lack of family resemblance.”

 

There’s a pregnant pause. There’s a battle of emotions warring over Sam’s features. Anxiety. Fear. Doubt. Dean recognizes them easily enough from the turmoil in his own chest. In the end, Sam simply bobs his head and leaves with a quiet “good night.”

 

 

Dean flops back onto his bed and stares at his naked ceiling. He thinks about the plastic stars Castiel had put on James’s ceiling to keep him company in the dark. He hopes Castiel has more than just a book to give him comfort.

 

At the beginning of the school year, all sorts of people had given them talks about the dangers of drinking and driving and how to cope with the stresses of their senior year. A lot of it was the same stuff he heard every year, but Dean specifically remembers  one of them because the chick giving it had been wearing an obscenely low cut top. Dean digs out his math book from underneath a pile of magazines. Scribbled under a row of uneven algebra equations Dean finds the number.

 

Dean gets his phone out and dials before he has the chance to lose his courage.

 

The phone hums for a few seconds before there’s a click and a soothing female voice says, “Hi, this is the Teen Helpline. My name is Pamela, how can I help you?”

 

And that’s the question, isn’t it? How can Pamela help?

 

“Er, I think I’ve gotten the wrong number, sorry-”

 

“Don’t you dare hang up on me, young man,” Pamela  says in such a perfect rendition of his grandmother’s voice that Dean automatically responds with a , “no, ma’am.”

 

Pamela huffs a laugh, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bully you. I just….sense that you can really use somebody talk to, and that’s what I’m here for.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yeah, so, why don’t we start easy, hon.What’s your name?”

 

“Dean,” he answers.

 

“Hello, Dean.What’s on your mind?”

 

Dean thinks about Castiel’s pale eyes as Zachariah dragged him out of the kitchen, thinks about the raised voices, the car door slamming. He thinks about the bars on the windows.

 

“I’m not, and I…well, I don’t know. That’s why I’m calling.”

 

“Well, Dean,” Pamela replies, “anything you tell me is in the strictest confidence.”

 

“I, just….” Dean rubs the back of his neck, giving himself time to gather his scattering thoughts, “I have this….friend.”

 

“Yeah? What’s he like?”

 

Dean’s honestly not quite sure how to answer that, so he goes with the first thing that pops into his head. “He’s kind of a bully, and he can be a real jerk. But he’s also really smart and nice when….. yeah….” he finishes lamely.

 

“And you’re worried about your friend?”

 

Dean walks over to his window, stares down at spot where Castiel had stood last night.

 

“It’s….like a hunch, you know?”

 

“A hunch?”

 

“It’s not…. he never says anything, or shows up with….bruises, but I’ve been to his house and got this…vibe.”

 

“Hunches are based on intuition rather than fact, Dean, and they are seldom wrong. Why don’t you tell me about it?”

 

Dean rests his forehead for a moment against the cool window and closes his eyes against the image of Castiel in the park.

 

“I’m not sure where to start,” Dean admits.

 

“Why not start at the beginning, Dean?”

 

And he does, in a ramble that probably doesn’t make any sense.

 

He tells her everything. He tells her about Castiel’s emotional brutality towards his classmates, his Jekyll and Mr. Hyde persona. He talks about the stupid bet he lost with Sam that led him to watching Castiel escape his house at five am and hide in the park. He details the white house, the bars on the window. He tells her how Castiel had seemed skittish in his own house, how spiteful his stepfather had been, and how Castiel sometimes has this hooded, haunted, look.

 

Dean can hear a breathless laugh in Pamela’s voice when he tells how he distracted the security guard from catching Castiel shoplifting socks and shirts for his disabled brother. He stumbles a bit when he details Castiel’s quiet confession of being left alone with a bag of oatmeal, of how he’d been locked out of his own home. He’s almost hoarse by the time he’s reached the point in the story where an enraged Zachariah had shown up and dragged Castiel out of their kitchen.

 

Dean feels the clench on his chest lose its grip, word by word.

 

 

He tries to explain how they ended up being friends, but doesn’t really know how to put to words the feeling of Castiel’s hand in his, or how he curled around Dean in his bed.

 

It takes Dean over an hour and when he’s finished, he’s exhausted and wants nothing more than to climb under the covers and sleep for a week.

 

“Well, Dean,” Pamela says, “you tell me you’ve expressed your concerns to your friend-”

 

“-well, I told him he can, like…talk to me,” Dean hedges, “about anything.”

 

“It is always difficult to bring up the topic of abuse-” Pamela says and at that simple word, the vice is back around his chest, squeezing him so hard, Deal feels like he can’t breathe.

 

“-it is probably easier for you to mention it  than for your friend. You don’t need it to sound very serious, just a “I notice you look tired, is everything alright?”

 

“Yeah?” Dean swallows.

 

“Just make sure you do it a private place so your friend feels comfortable. And if he tells you anything- if he opens up, just listen to his story.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“And, Dean, this is the most important part. You’ve taken a big step in calling me, but for your friend’s safety, this can’t be kept hidden. If your friend is going to get the help he needs, you need tell someone you can trust who can intervene- your parents, a teacher, a counselor, or have him call us. It may be difficult for him to take this step on his own, so you can offer to make the call for him, or be with him.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Always support to your friend, listen to him when he’s ready to talk, offer him safe places- even if he won’t accept it now, let him know it’s an offer without an expiration date. Don’t rush anything- unless you believe he is in immediate danger.”

 

“I…thanks,” Dean says, “I’ll try.”

 

“I know it’s hard, Dean, but nothing will get better if nobody talks about it and from the sound of it, your friend may not have anybody else he can rely on. It may feel like a lot of pressure, but I know you can do it.”

 

Dean desperately wishes that he’d feel half as brave as Pamela makes him sound.

 

“Thank you, Pamela. Good night.”

 

“Good night, Dean, please know you can call at any time.”

 

It takes a long time to fall asleep, despite the temporary relief he had felt after talking to Pamela. She had told him to trust his instincts. Dean could admit that he sometimes he acted before thinking about the consequences but this just felt too huge to ignore.

 

Too scary.

 

And he catches himself almost wishing that there was some…some concrete evidence; then Castiel would have to confirm Dean’s hunch and….

 

Dean twists around onto his side and squeezes his eyes shut so hard he sees stars.

 

 

He doesn’t ever want to see Castiel hurt.

 

 

 

Monday morning dawns, bright and glaring and Dean is sure he hasn’t slept for more than a few hours. Breakfast is a tense and silent affair, his dad hiding behind the newspaper, Sam chasing his cornflakes around and his mom clutching her cup of coffee as though it’s a lifeline.

 

“Dean, hon, why don’t you ask Castiel over for dinner some time this week?”

 

The newspaper rattles, but John doesn’t say anything in the way that suggested that his mom and dad have already had this conversation.

 

“Sure,” Dean says trying to hide his blush and avoid Sam’s foot nudging his.

 

“It would be nice to get to know him better, and…well…” she hides the rest of the sentences behind the rim of her coffee cup.

 

“I’ll ask at school.”

 

“Wonderful,” Mary smiles while John abruptly folds the newspaper.

 

“I’m off to work,” he grumbles, moving over to peck his wife quickly on the cheek before he marches out of the kitchen.

 

 

 

He doesn’t see Castiel until their homeroom teacher wanders in with a bundle of papers under one arm and a permanent scowl. Castiel follows in his wake, sliding into his seat just as the morning call is made. Dean tries to catch his attention, but Castiel’s eyes are glued to the blackboard and Dean doesn’t want to resort to tossing him notes in class.

 

He prepares for Castiel’s usual flight from their homeroom, and as soon as the bell releases them from class, he’s running down the corridor after him. It takes him only five steps to close the distance and match Castiel’s urgent strides.

 

“Mornin’, Castiel, what’s the rush?”

 

Castiel glances at Dean, and for a moment he looks caught between conflicting emotions that Dean can’t really name.

 

“Good morning, Dean,” Castiel says quietly, as though they are sharing a secret.

 

“Can we talk?”

 

“Sure, Dean.”

 

“Great, so-”

 

Castiel goes still beside him, like a cat that’s just spotted a dog on the opposite sidewalk. Dean feels Castiel’s warm fingers wrap around his wrist, and then he finds himself yanked into a supplies closet.

 

The space is tiny, dark and smells of cleaning supplies and like somebody’s been sneaking a smoke. Dean feels Castiel’s hot breath against the hollow of his throat, feels the shift of Castiel’s hips against his and tries not to let his brain lead him astray.

 

“We’re in the closet,” Castiel says, and Dean can’t really tell if there’s a second layer of meaning behind that statement or if Castiel his usual literal self.

 

“It’s nice, love what you have done with it,” he tries for levity and feels his stomach doing odd flips when Castiel smiles.

 

“Thank you.”

 

Castiel slides his backpack off, bumping against Dean as he drops it on the floor. Dean lets his slide to the ground as well and nudges it against the wall.

 

“Why are we in the closet?”

 

“Oh,” Castiel says, “I saw Gordon Walker and I didn’t want to get into trouble.”

 

“I’m not afraid of Walker,” Dean snorts.

“I know, but…”Castiel hunches his shoulders. “I didn’t want to get in trouble….” he repeats.

 

Dean thinks he finally understands. Castiel doesn’t want to get in trouble in school because he’s walking on thin ice at home.

 

“Right. Well. The thing is my mom wants to invite you over for dinner one day this week. If you can.”

 

Castiel stares at Dean as though he’s suddenly started speaking in tongues.

 

“Dinner?”

 

“Yeah, you know, because….” Dean trails off, because he doesn’t know if Castiel realizes that his mom wants to make it up to him for the crappy way Zachariah dragged him out of their home. It’s not something Dean wants to bring up.

 

“Sure, that is….sure,” Castiel says, finding his voice, “Thursday?”

 

“Great, I’ll let her know.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

Then they are caught in one of those moments where neither of them seems to know what to say. Castiel is watching him, as if he’s trying to anticipate what wonderful thing Dean will do next, and Dean tries to not say anything embarrassing about how absolutely stunning he thinks Castiel’s eyes are. After a while, the scrutiny of Castiel’s gaze grows too heavy and Dean breaks the silence.

 

“Well, it’s an hour until lunch is done, do you want to…hang out, here?”

 

“I…” Castiel starts and Dean realizes how he intended to finish the sentence, “I usually do.”

 

Why, Dean wonders. Most of the school is terrified that Castiel tell the whole school about how their mother drinks too much, or about their father having an affair with the secretary.

 

Why would the school bully need to hide?

 

He remembers what Pamela had said about approaching topics in private and secure spaces and how they were, in fact, in a closet. Maybe this could be like a trial run.

 

Dean catches the flick of Castiel’s eyes.

 

“So…um, can I ask you something personal?” Dean approaches the question with caution. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, it’s totally cool.”

 

There’s a slight hesitation in Castiel’s eyes, before he nods.

 

And so, Dean wanders straight into it, like he seems to do most things.

 

“Why exactly are you such an asshole to people at school?”

 

Castiel’s pupils blow wide, until his eyes seems almost completely black  and for a moment Dean thinks Castiel may actually punch him. His eyes are fathomless, but Dean sees something different in their depths, he sees the same Castiel who sat listlessly in the stone gazebo.

 

“You don’t have to-” Dean says quickly, desperate to steer the conversation into safer territory. He wants to reach out and make contact, but Castiel shrugs away, twisting in the small space until he’s able to hide his face.

 

“No, it’s-”

 

Castiel sighs and slumps against the shelves. He rubs a hand over his face and Dean can see how he gathers his courage.

 

“When I went to elementary school, I used to be bullied, almost every day. Some days there’d be this group of  kids waiting for me outside of the school ground, throwing rocks at me, just to see how fast I could run. Sometimes they’d just….”

 

He presses his lips to a thin line. “I told my  stepfather and he said I had to toughen up and deal with it. That I had to stand up for myself. Nobody likes a pushover, he said. And I tried all the tricks I knew to avoid them, because I’d get into trouble if I came home with ruined clothes or books.”

 

Castiel hunches his shoulders. “I didn’t want to fight them, they always outnumbered me and- well, I figured they’d grow tired of me eventually. They didn’t, though, and when I started high school, I swore to myself that things would be different, I wouldn’t let anybody pick on me. I figured that if I was mean, that if I just….put them in their place, then they wouldn’t bother me.”

 

“A lot of people didn’t deserve you ripping them apart,” Dean tells him, quiet and grim.

 

Castiel tenses, “It’s hard to…to figure out who’s going to end up-”

 

“-like, my friends, Jo and Kevin , they’re good people.”

 

Castiel scrubs a hand over the back of his neck, his gaze locked on his shoes.

 

“I’m not proud of it, but I worried more about-” he snaps his mouth shut and Dean sees his Adam’s apple work against the words lodged in his throat.

 

“Just,” Dean  places a hand carefully against Castiel’s arm. It feels thin and bony under the fabric of his shirt. “Maybe you can tell people you’re sorry.”

 

“That day in the school yard,” Castiel says, “ when you stood up to me, remember?”

 

“Um, yeah,” Dean says, because threatening Castiel with his secret hadn’t really made Dean feel all that great, even if the students had cheered him on.

 

“I really wanted to hit you,” Castiel confesses quietly, “because I was jealous.”

 

“Jealous?”

 

“You stood up for that girl  and I…I kinda wished that I had been brave enough to do so for myself.  And then I realized that you had….such a powerful weapon against me, but you didn’t use it and…I admired that and it made me want to get to get to know you, to be more like you. But I knew you wouldn’t want to associate with me if I was…..a bully. So I  just- stopped.”

 

It’s the nicest, most sincere and scariest thing anybody’s ever told Dean. The closet feels oddly cramped and far too small for all these feelings Dean didn’t even know it was possible to experience at once. How does Castiel manage to bring out all these new and exciting emotions in Dean? Does Castiel feel the same?

 

“That’s why you asked if I wanted to grab dinner with you?”

 

Castiel scrunches his nose and then nods, “I read in a book that it was socially acceptable to make new acquaintances over dinner.”

 

Dean huffs a laugh. Only Castiel would research the best way to make friends.

 

“Well,” Dean says, “I’ haven’t read that but I’ve seen on television that it’s also socially acceptable to go to the movies.”  

 

“Movies?”

 

“Do you want to come to the movies with me on Saturday? I’m taking Sam and his date, and figured I’d might as well hang around the theater while I’m waiting to drive them home.”  

 

Castiel’s eyes widens in comprehension and even in the dark, Dean can see the blush spread across his cheeks to the tips of his ears.

 

“Like….a date?”

 

“Erm.…” Dean tugs at the collar of his t-shirt. Suddenly the closet is very warm and very small.

 

If Castiel had been a girl, it would be easy to wink and grin, to say something suave and boast about it to Sam afterwards. Castiel’s a guy, he’s all sharp edges and scratchy chin, and he’s constantly making Dean’s stomach and chest do acrobatics.

 

Castiel’s watching his face, searching it, and Dean wonders what he’s seeing there, knows that silence will be its own answer soon enough.

 

“Yes,” he says promptly, and though it’s only three small letters, it feels like the most terrifying thing in the world, putting a name, giving this thing between them a clear definition that nobody could misunderstand.

 

 

“I would like that,” Castiel says as though they’ve just agreed on pizza topping, and Dean can’t help envy his courage.

 

“Great,” Dean replies, and loses his battle against his smile. He feels the rough pad of Castiel’s fingers skim down his arm to his hand, feels his long, thin, fingers slot easily between his until their hands are laced together.

 

Castiel isn’t quite looking at him when he says, “I like holding hands with you, Dean.”

 

Dean’s certain nobody has ever made him blush as fiercely before.

 

“Yeah?” His voice is lodged somewhere between his heart and throat. Dean’s really glad that there’s nobody to witness his sudden transformation to a little girl.

 

“Yes.”

 

Castiel steps forward, his shoes sliding between Dean’s shoes, his chest pressed against Dean’s, his hand warm and holding against Dean’s hand. He leans forward a little, almost standing on the tip of his toes to brush his lips against Dean’s cheek and whisper in his ear, “I like kissing you too, Dean.”

 

The words sends a coil of flame straight down Dean’s spine to his pelvis, and suddenly he’s got Castiel corralled against the back shelf and his lips against his.

 

It’s nothing like that first kiss, tender and almost fragile. Castiel is pressing himself against Dean, licking into his mouth, teases his palate and Dean needs to grab hold of the shelving behind Castiel to anchor himself. He slides his hands up Castiel’s arms, curls them around his hard and slender shoulders and he takes a moment to marvel at how perfectly they fit in his hands. Then he cups Castiel’s face, keeping him still as Dean licks into the seam of his mouth.

 

He feels Castiel’s hand snake between their bodies until it circles Dean’s waist and curls against the small of his back. He continues kissing Dean’s mouth. Hot. Hard. It’s awesome and amazing and Dean drinks each kiss from his lips, thinking that he can never have his fill.

 

Dean skims his hands down Castiel’s sides, feels the muscles under his shirt jump and jerk at the touch, but Castiel doesn’t pull away and Dean seeks to close that last bit of space between them. His hips moves instinctually against Castiel’s, seeking friction.

 

Dean pulls back, his breath coming in short, rapid gasps and his heart thundering against his chest. Castiel looks wrecked, his lips red and swollen and his eyes dancing across Dean’s face.

 

Dean fights a losing war with his head. “You’re not…”

 

He’s not really sure how to finish the sentence.

 

He’s never done it with a guy before, but he’s pretty sure that Castiel’s reaction, or lack of it- how can Dean be the only one who’s hard? Isn’t Castiel in to him as much as Dean thought?

 

Castiel licks his lips, never taking his eyes away from Deans.

 

“Is that a requirement?” He asks, sounding so somber that for a moment Dean is lost between hilarity and confusion. 

 

“No,” Dean says before he’s condemned himself. He skims his hands to Castiel’s face again, holds him in place as he dips in for another kiss against his mouth, to his chin, against the shell of his ear, “iIt’s not.”

 

The make-out session comes to the end with the call of the school bell. Dean hurries down the corridor towards his next class, barely managing not to have a skip in his step.

 

He doesn’t see Castiel again until their final class. Castiel hands a note to their P.E. coach and spends the hour sitting on the bleachers, sneaking glances at Dean from his biology text book.

 

Gordon Walker notices, of course, and gives Dean a very white, shark-like smile. It’s a big, glowing, neon “Danger!” sign but their coach keeps a firm eye on the game and the only thing Walker can do is scowl and sneer.

 

After class, Dean sees Zachariah’s large, dark car waiting in the parking lot. Castiel squares his shoulders and drags his step like a man walking to his execution. Dean wants to say something, but he can almost imagine Zachariah’s hard, black eyes staring at them from behind the tainted windows.

 

A lump of ice settles on Dean’s heart as he realizes he’d forgotten Pamela’s advice to ask Castiel if everything was alright. Dean makes a promise that when Castiel comes over for dinner, he’ll ask.

 


	11. Chapter eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All credit to my wonderful Beta, I feel blessed to know you <3

 

 

**Chapter eleven.**

 

“Dean Winchester!”Joanna Harvelle strides across the schoolyard, clearly a girl on a mission.

 

“Jo,” Dean says cautiously. It’s been weeks since they’ve talked. He meant to  bring her up to speed but it’s never been the right time or place. Dean knows that’s just an excuse, though.   

 

“The strangest thing just happened,” Jo says, her mouth twisted into something between a smile and a grimace.

 

“Oh?” 

 

“Novak,” Jo spits his name like a curse, “just came up and apologized for, quote unquote , ‘hurting my feelings.’ ”

 

“Cas?” As if there is anyone else whose name could elicit such scorn from Jo.

 

Jo purses her lips. “Cas, is it?”

 

“Castiel. Cas. We’re friends. Sorta. We hang out sometimes.” Dean shrugs, aiming for casual and missing by about a mile. “So he apologized, isn’t that a good thing?” he adds, hoping to steer the conversation to safer territory than the nature of his relationship with Cas.

 

“Yes,” she grits her teeth. “Do you know how humiliating it is to have that jerk wander up to you when you’re hanging out with your friends and say  he’s sorry for hurting your feelings? And then,” she adds, preemptively interrupting Dean when he opens his mouth, “ he said you’re the one who pointed out the error of his ways.”

 

“What?” Dean manages before Jo continues, “I don’t need you to fight my battles, Winchester. I’m not some sort of damsel in distress that-”

 

“No, that’s not what-”

 

“-I can handle myself against assholes like him!”

 

Dean braces himself, certain that Jo’s only a breath away from punching him. She doesn’t. She just stands there, silent and fuming.

 

“So are you mad at me for Novak apologizing to you, or….”

 

Jo tosses her blond her hair over her shoulder. “No, I’m….no. I just- what did you do to make him apologize? Do you have some sort of dirt on him, was it blackmail?”

 

“What? No, I just….talked to him.”

 

Jo doesn’t look convinced. “Talked to him?”

 

Dean tries not to think about how or where that particular conversation took place.

 

“Yeah, just…he wants to…turn over a new leaf, you know.”

 

If possible, Jo looks even less convinced.

 

“Just give him a chance,” Dean shrugs. “He’s really not all that bad, once you get to know him.”

 

“He’s been a bully for years, Dean, you really think he’s just….suddenly, what, reformed?”

 

“Yeah, I do. People can change. Make amends. Have you seen him bully anybody lately?”

 

Jo deflates, “No, but-”

 

“So, just give him a break.”

 

It’s odd to think that not that long ago he had a similar conversation with Sam. He didn’t rise to Cas’s defense then, but Dean´s seen a different side of Cas, the one that doesn’t think that offense is a good defense.

 

“All right,” Jo takes a step back, flicking her long hair over her shoulder, a wry curl of mouth that makes Dean immediately worry that he’s too transparent. “Can’t say I’d ever picture you as the champion for forgiveness, Dean.”

 

 

 

“Yeah,” Dean laughs nervously, “just remember that I’m still the champion of Mario Kart.”

 

“Only if I’m playing blindfolded and with no thumbs!” She grins and the two of them part with the promise of a rematch game on Sunday.

 

 

 

Jo Harvelle is not the only person apologizes to. By the end of the day,  Dean knows of at least eight  others, including Tran, Branson and Matthews. When Dean goes to get his history books from his locker, people whisper and stare at him in awe, like he just walked on water or something.  

 

 

 

Dean  and Cas  end up walking into their final class together a few minutes before the bell Dean tries to quench the warm, bubbling feeling he gets watching Cas shuffle on ahead, his oversized backpack on his shoulder.  .

 

Cas gives him the faintest of nods before he slides into his usual seat  in the front row. Dean takes the seat behind him. He tries to not spend the entire class staring at the slope of Cas’s neck and thinking about how soft the hairs at the nape had felt against his fingers.

 

After class, Dean takes his time packing up his books and Cas does the same. Their teacher and the rest of the class hurry off to  freedom, leaving them alone in the classroom.

 

“I talked to Jo,” Dean says.

Cas stops stuffing his books into his bag. His back stiffens and Dean thinks he can see the hairs on Cas’s arm stand to attention.

 

“What did Miss Harvelle have to say?”

 

“She said you apologized. And that….you did it because of something I said.”

 

“I don’t want your friends to dislike me,” Cas says quietly.

 

“Owning up  like that was pretty brave.  .”

  
“I…well, I  didn’t really enjoy being that person.”

 

Dean closes the distance between them and carefully nudges his shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I really like this person.”

 

Cas eyes widen, bright and blue and fierce. Suddenly Dean wants to take it back. His heart starts to hammer and he’s just about to crack a joke when Cas suddenly wraps his arms around him and pulls him into a hug. Dean’s arms hang  at his side for a second, before they sneak around Cas’s back. He nervously eyes the window in the closed classroom door and He pats his Cas’s shoulder a few times in what he thinks is hopes looks like   a “just buddies” kind of gesture, his gaze glued to the window in the door . Any second now, somebody might see them. But Cas doesn’t let go, and Dean feels his breath warm and moist along his cheek, feels the slight scratch of his chin against his. He finally peels himself away, before his mind decides to entertain those earlier thoughts.

 

They finally break apart and Dean clears his throat, once, twice, before he winds finds his voice and croaks, “are Are we still on for dinner on Thursday?”

 

“Yes, Dean, we are still…on,” Cas tilts his head.

 

“Great. Is 6. pm alright?”

 

Cas nods, nods. “my My curfew is at 10.30 pm.”

 

“No worries.”

 

“I….” Cas starts and then his gaze darts to the clock above on the black back wall. He goes ridging rigid with shock.

 

“I’m late,” he grabs his bag and his coat things and hurries out the door, not even pausing to say good-bye. Dean exits the school, just in time to see Cas scramble into the backseat of Zachariah’s sleek, black car. Dean shakes his head and heads toward the parking lot.

 

When he comes home from school, his mom is the only one at home. With a smile she navigates him to a chair by the table and places a sandwich and a large glass of milk in front of him.

 

“What do you think Cas would like for dinner, Dean?”

 

“What?”

 

“What are some of his favorite things to eat?”

 

Dean frowns. He wonders if this is the sort of thing he should know about Cas. Favorite food, favorite color, movie and books. Isn’t that more a thing that couples know about each other?

 

“I don’t know,” Dean says. “Whatever you make will be fine. No need to make a fuss. It’s not a big deal.”

 

“Well, I’d like to get to know your friend better.” There’s a strange lilt to her voice when she says “friend”, as if she intended like she meant to say something else.

 

Dean glances up from his homework, but his mom has perfected the smile of the innocent.

 

“Right,” Dean mumbles and tries to focus on the American Civil War. For a few minutes the only sounds in the room are the soft creak of Mary’s shoes, the scraping of a knife peeling potatoes. It’s the most wonderful domestic music in the world.

 

 Dean wonders what Cas is listening to, wonders if he’s sitting alone in that terrible stark room of his.

 

“So,” Mary says, wiping her hands on a towel, “we’ve met Cas’s father-”

 

“Stepfather,” Dean corrects.

 

“Stepfather,” Mary repeats slowly. “Does he have any siblings?”

 

Dean closes his textbook. There is no way he’s going to be able to focus on his homework if he has to try and navigate his mother through Cas’s crappy life story.

 

“I’ll tell you, if you promise not to bring it up at dinner.”

 

Dean gets a small frown in return.

 

His mom tosses the towel onto the counter and the folds her arms across her chest, giving Dean her full attention in a way she usually does when Dean’s in trouble.

 

“So, well,his mom died in a car-crash when he was, like, a year old, and the same crash scrambled his older brother’s brain and now he has to live in a nursing home.”

 

Mary stares at him, as if she’s expecting more and so Dean adds, “and now  Cas doesn’t have anyone else so he lives with his stepfather.”

 

“I suppose that explains why his stepfather is so protective,” Mary murmurs, turning away from Dean. Dean’s pretty sure that “protective” is not the word he’d use to describe Zachariah. Controlling asshole is far   more like it.

 

 

At exactly 7.pm on the dot on Thursday, Dean opens the front door and finds Cas standing on the doorstep, his hand clenched around his jacket. He’s dressed wearing dress pants, a crisp white shirt, a grey vest, and a blue tie. His attire is oddly formal and would look out of place on anybody else. But Cas looks rather striking and Dean’s suddenly self-conscious of his own tattered jeans and t-shirt,.

 

“Hello, Dean.”

 

“Hey,” Dean shuffles to the side, holding the door open, “you look, great.”

 

The corners of Cas’s mouth crease into a small smile. Dean wraps his hand around the doorknob to stop himself from pulling Cas in for a kiss.

 

“Is that him, Dean?” Mary calls.

 

“Yes, Mom.” He turns to Cas. “Come on in.”

 

Cas steps inside and Dean hangs up his coat, draping it on top of the pile of clothing in the corridor, taking more time than strictly necessary to smooth out the wrinkles. Enough time to get his thoughts under control.

 

“Hello, Cas.”

 

“Hello, Mrs. Winchester,” Cas responds and thrusts a bouquet of flowers at Mary. They look a little shabby and manhandled. Dean hopes Cas didn’t steal them.

 

“Oh, thank you!” Mary grins. “That’s awfully sweet of you, hon. And please, call me Mary.”

 

Cas clasps his hands at the small of his back and tries to hide his smile.

 

“Let me put them in some water. Why don’t you join the rest of the guys in the living room, dinner is almost ready.”

 

“This way,” Dean says, and as soon as his mother has disappeared into the kitchen, Dean lays a hand casually on Cas’s shoulder and guides him into the living room.

 

John is sitting in his chair by the television, his legs crossed and his grip firmly on the newspaper. His only welcome is a slight shake of paper and an icy ice cold  “good evening.”

 

Dean can feel the tension riding along Cas’s arm. For a second Dean thinks Cas might actually turn and leave, but then Sam, bless him, breaks the tension.

 

“Hello, Cas,” Sam looks up from his notebook with a grin and a wave. “I’m stuck on this equation, would you mind helping me?”

 

“Certainly,” Cas slides away from Dean’s space and settles next to Sam by the small coffee table. John spares them a brief look, eyebrows knotted in a frown.

 

Cas and Sam are soon engaged in a conversation about equations and differentials that Dean immediately looses track of . Dean gets bored listening to them and settles for trying to watch the television. The paper rustles as John lowers it. He catches  his father’s gaze, tries to understand what he’s reading there-  if it’s anger or something else. John wasn’t this hostile to Cas the last time he was over and he Dean wonders what’s changed.

 

Shit, had he seen them touching?

 

Dean balls his hands into fists to stop them from trembling. The last thing he wants is for his father to figure it…them out. Shit. He really can’t handle that confrontation now. Or anytime.

 

John’s glacial front to Cas doesn’t melt during dinner, but if anybody else is notices his chilly politeness, they ignore it. Sam and his mom talk to Cas as if he’s a common addition to their dinner table. But while Cas is courteous and endearing, Dean can read the stiffness in his fingers around his fork, sees his anxiety in his posture.

 

After dinner is finished and the dishes cleared away, John leaves for his nightshift and Dean feels temperature rising by several degrees. They spend the rest of the evening watching television and Mary is the only one who is surprised when Cas beats them all in the quiz show.

 

Just after 10.pm, Cas bids them farewell.

 

“Let me walk you out,” Dean says and tries to ignore the look his mother and Sam share. Cas shrugs into his coat and Dean follows him to the porch.

 

Cas shrugs into his coat and Dean follows him outside. They stand for a moment on the porch, Dean regretting not stuffing his feet into a pair of shoes.

 

“I had a great time, thank you for having me over,” Cas says, stuffing his hands into his pockets against the chilly night air.

 

“You can come over anytime, you know, whenever you like.”

 

Cas averts his gaze, his whole body rigid. “yeahYeah….”

“I know my dad didn’t seem like himself tonight. I’m sorry about that, I think there’s something going on at his work….”

Cas smiles faintly at Dean’s clumsy excuses. “It’s okay, Dean. I understand.”

“ Okay, cool. ‘Cause I really liked having you here and I think you liked being here too.” When Cas nods in agreement, Dean takes a deep breath.

 

“ You know… you can like…tell me…. stuff,” Dean says  lamely trails off weakly.  It sounds lame and he’s not surprised when Cas frowns in return. “Like, if there’s something bugging you,” Dean clarifies, “you can always tell me.”

 

“Okay,” Cas says, hunching his shoulders and scuffing his shoes against the porch.

 

“Yeah…” Dean wonders if this is what Pamela had in mind when she advised Dean to   offer Cas a safe place.

 

Cas shifts his weight from one foot to the other, studying the state of his shoes, . “I gotta go, or I’ll be late.”

 

“See you at school tomorrow.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

They continue to stand there, the silence between them all encompassing. There’s only a flick of his eyes that warns Dean before Cas leans in and places a chaste kiss on his cheek. It’s brief, warm and sweet, wet. The only other person who has ever kissed on his cheek his is mother. Then Cas is walking down the driveway. Dean watches him until he disappears in the darkness.

 

When he steps inside, Sam is standing in the doorway to the living room, his math book tucked under his arm, looking like the cat that just ate the canary.

 

“Not a word,” Dean grumbles, taking the steps two at a time until he’s safely behind his bedroom door.

 

 

Saturday arrives all too quickly. As Dean waits in the car for Sam, he realizes he Dean isn’t ready for this thing….this date with Cas. Making out in the privacy of a closet or his bedroom is fine. Going out on a date in public is…not as easy.

 

He’s going on a date.

With a guy.

 

The thing about a date is that it’s something is official. Dean’s good at dating, he can charm an Inuit into buying ice. He can grin and wink and say the right things that’ll reward him with some serious making out session at the end of the evening.

 

That part’s all cool.

 

It’s when the dating becomes serious. Things get difficult when it crosses the line leading to a relationship, .

 

Dean’s not so good with relationships and his with Cas was complicated even before they kissed in Dean’s bed and made out in the janitor’s closet and Dean had asked him out on a date. The road from thinking that Cas was the biggest asshole in school to really, really enjoying the way he’d pressed up against Dean has been a roller coaster ride. And now it feels like the part when the cart is climbing the biggest slope, just before it teeters on the edge.

 

What if somebody recognizes him?

Or worse, what if one of his parents’ friends recognizes him?

 

Dean feels his heart trashing against his chest and like he might actually really be sick. Why did his stupid mouth decide to agree that this was a date and not just two guys catching a movie? He’s decided that he’s just going to tell Sam that he’s sick when Sam folds his long frame into the car.

 

“Ready?” Sam says, not sounding nervous at all.

 

Dean wipes his moist hands on his jeans. It took him over an hour to decide what to wear, and the result was pretty much what he’d worn to school earlier that week. He’s regretting his choice now but there’s not enough time to change.

 

“We’ll meet back at the car at 10:30,” Dean clears his throat. “Don’t get yourself thrown out of the movie for indecent behavior.”

 

He catches sight of Sam’s scarlet face in the rearview mirror.

 

“That goes both ways, Dean.”

 

Dean rolls his eyes and tightens his grip on the wheel.

 

A few minutes later they pull up to Jess’ house. Sam fumbles a few times with the door handle before he manages to shove the car door open. “Don’t you…” Sam’s threats goes unfinished, unable to pinpoint any of the myriad of things Dean might do to embarrass him. “Just remember our deal.”

 

“I’ll be nice, Sammy, don’t worry.”

 

Sam narrows his eyes, “I mean, it Dean, if you-”

 

“I swear,” Dean spreads his hands in surrender, “I won’t embarrass you.”

 

Sam still doesn’t look reassured, but he doesn’t have time to come up with any real threats. The door to Jess’ house opens and light spills into the gloom. Sam freezes, and then slowly shuffles up the path as if he’s walking to his execution and not a date.

 

Dean sees Sam being greeted at the door by an imposingly tall man who shakes his hand. It then looks like he reads Sam the riot act and Dean tries hard not to laugh. Sam shakes his hand. A few minutes later, a blonde-haired girl with black-rimmed glasses appears. She grabs Sam’s hand and promptly drags him towards the car. Sam’s definitely found a keeper.

 

Sam scrambles to reach the car before Jess, yanks the car door open and almost elbows his date. Dean stifles his laugh.

 

“Hi, I’m Jess,” she says, sliding into the backseat. She sticks her hand out towards Dean, and Dean twists around in his seat to shake it.  

 

“I’m Dean, Sam’s brother, and your chauffeur this evening.”

 

Jesse grins and shoves her glasses up on her nose. “Nice to meet you, Dean. Sam talks about you a lot.”

 

Dean turns away to hide his look of surprise.

 

Sam stumbles into the car, the tips of his ears burning.

 

Dean puts the car in gear and pulls out into the street. Sam and Jess buckle their seatbelt, keeping the middle seat between them like no-man’s land. They drive for a few moments, the silence in the backseat growing heavier and heavier.

 

“So, what movie are you guys watching?”

 

“I don’t know yet,” Jess confesses. “Sam said he’d let me pick. I hope they are still showing that Japanese splatter film, I’ve seen a trailer of it and supposedly there’s this half-woman-half-crocodile thing in it that looks way cool.”

 

Sam, however, looks a bit green.

 

“Awesome,” Dean grins.

 

 

They find a free parking space a block from the movie.

 

“Have a great time,” Dean calls.

 

Jess  waves and then she and Sam cross the road and head towards the movie theater. Just as they disappear around a corner, Sam grabs hold of Jess’ hand.

 

 

Dean trails behind them, looking around until he recognizes the back of Cas’s trench coat, hanging on his shoulders like a shroud. He’s staring at a large television screening trailers for the current movies. Dean calls out and when Cas turns, the frown on his face is replaced with a smile that makes Dean miscalculates his step onto the sidewalk. He feels Cas’s hand against his shoulder as he saves him from an undignified meeting with the pavement.

 

“Hello, Dean.”

 

“Hello, Cas.”

 

Cas’s hand is still on his shoulder and Dean feels it brush down his arm before Cas lets go.

 

“So, did you have a good day?” Dean asks, trying to regain his dignity.

 

“I was studying at the library,” Cas says. “I think I made friends with the assistant librarian.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“She was interested in what I was reading, and then recommended I try these books about an English wizard who attends a boarding school for the magically gifted. In fact, she was rather insistent, said it was the cure for the inexcusable gap in my cultural reference.”

 

“English wizard- do you mean Harry Potter?”

 

Cas nods, “I read the beginning of the first book, it was…poignant.”

 

“Yeah,” Dean says around the sudden lump in his throat, “which movie do you want to watch?”

 

Cas hums.

 

“Well, I saw a trailer about a group of astronauts stranded on a space station and  fighting for their lives against an asteroid that threatens Earth, . But perhaps you’d prefer the one about a wrongly accused navy SEAL, wrongly accused of a crime and attempting to prove himself innocent to his family and country?”

 

Those are the worst movie pitches Dean’s ever heard.

 

“I know you like space-stuff,” Dean says, secretly pleased at Cas’s look of surprise, “let’s watch those astronauts rescue Earth.”

 

The movie lobby is full of people of all ages, and Dean recognizes a couple of faces from his school. Luckily, they don’t seem to notice him. Cas lingers at his side. His hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat. His posture tense, Cas moves moving through the throng of people with an odd little sway to his step, as he tries not to accidentally bump  into anyone.

 

They file into the cinema and shuffle along to their seats in the back row far corner of the room , just in time to avoid the commercials.

 

Ten minutes into the movie and he’s regretting the popcorn purchase. Cas’s hand keeps dipping towards Dean’s lap to collect stray morsels of popcorn. Then his tongue comes out to sort of lap the popcorn into his mouth and then  afterwards, he licks salt from his fingers in a way that has Dean’s imagination running riot. He’s pretty sure he’s never been so turned on by anyone eating popcorn before.

 

“You take this,” Dean says with a strangled voice, shoving the cup of  popcorn into Cas’s hands and crossing his legs.

 

He tries to focus on the movie.

 

Just as the astronaut loses communication with Houston, Dean feels Cas’s knee bump against his. He freezes, wondering if was an accidental or intentional.

 

Besides  Cas grabbing his shoulder to stop Dean’s faceplant, they haven’t really touched in public. Does Cas want to touch him? Does he expect them to touch? Did he read about in that book he apparently uses as a guide to navigate the social norms of teenagers?

 

In his peripheral vision, he sees that Cas has abandoned the popcorn. He’s staring at the movie with wide, blue eyes. The face is so _Cas,_ puzzled and amused, and this insight catches Dean off guard and fills him with such warmth.

 

Dean feels daring in the secluded corner of the cinema. He nudges his knee against Cas’s. Cas glances at him, reading something on Dean’s face, Dean didn’t know was there. He sneaks his hand across the armrest, finds Dean’s in the dark and knits their fingers together. Dean’s heart hammers too fast, but other than that, he feels calm. He can do this.

 

 

The movie ends all too soon and they emerge from the dark, noisy cinema into the crisp air, their breath misting.

 

“I gotta meet Sam by the car in about forty minutes. When do you need to be home?”

 

Cas’s eyes darts to his shoes for a moment. “my My stepfather is picking me up from the gym at 11.

 

Dean’s familiar enough with the complicated emotions and tactics that come with sneaking out, so he doesn’t press the issue.

 

“Well, I know a place we can grab something to drink and get out of the cold.”

 

He leads the way to a diner a couple of streets away. Whenever he’s been there with Sam, the place has been packed so Dean’s relieved to find it almost empty. Like the first time they went to a diner, they find a booth at the back of the room and settle into opposite sides of the table.

 

“Want something to drink?”

 

Cas grabs the menu and scrutinizes it for a second. “Are root-beer floats any good?”

 

“Pretty great.”

 

A few minutes later, a waitress arrives with their drinks order, and Cas stares at his drink like a potential discovery- could be amazing, could be a scam.

 

“So, what did you think about the movie?”

 

“I enjoyed it   its interpretation of the future of space travel.”

 

“I really liked the special effects and the music was amazing,”  Dean says. “If you’re into science fiction, you should check out Star Trek or Star Wars.”

 

“The girl from the library also suggested a series called Firefly and Battlestar Galactica.”

 

“We should marathon Firefly one day,” Dean says. “It’s awesome.”

 

Cas smiles, small and quiet, and Dean tries to keep the blush from spreading across his face. He nudges Cas’s foot, hooking his ankle around his. They sit like that, their knees and legs touching, talking about television shows and books. It’s difficult to reconcile this easy, relaxed Cas with Novak,  the same guy who’d sat across from him a few weeks ago and said he’d like to make small talk with Dean.

 

In thinking about it, Dean’s surprised at how easily he’d transitioned from hating Cas to dating him. It wasn’t difficult to like Cas. Maybe because there’s so much about Cas that Dean admires. Like  his intelligence and how he cared cares for his brother. Or the bravery it took to apologies apologize to people he had wronged. Dean can’t forget the fact that Cas had been a bully, he had been cruel to people Dean cared about. But Cas is also a little bit broken and he wants to be a better, nicer person. He’s touched Dean in so many ways, and he  isn’t quite like anybody else in the entire world and sometimes it feels like there’s this profound bond between them.

 

And maybe one day, his feelings and that connection will change he won’t like Cas, won’t feel connected to him, but at this very moment, Dean can’t imagine his life without Cas in it. Somehow that seems like the most important thing in the world.

 

Afterwards, they stand outside the diner, stomping their feet against the chill. Dean doesn’t want the night- the date, whatever, to end, but he has to meet Sam in ten minutes and he really doesn’t want Cas to miss his curfew.

 

“This was nice,” Cas says, quiet and shy, “I had a great time.”

 

“Yeah,” Dean answers, his mouth dry.

 

“I will see you on Monday.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Then they just stand there for a moment, Dean trying to think what the protocol is, if he should…hug him or, kiss his cheek or shake his hand or something. Cas seems equally lost and finally, he raises his hand to that little odd wave he does and-

 

-and Dean steps forward, takes Cas’s face in both hands, forehead pressed together. He can feel the sudden rush of blood and the warmth spreading from his cold fingertips, his skin tingling with strange elation as he dips his head in and kisses him.

 

For a second, Cas’s hands hangs listlessly at his side, but then he feels his fingers walk up Dean’s arm, until they are cradling his elbows. They finally pull apart, breaths creating a white mist in the cold air.

 

“Good night,” Dean says, his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth.

 

Cas smiles, “ Good night, Dean.”

 

They part, and Dean watches Cas walk towards down the street, the collar of his coat tugged up against the cold.

 

He meets Jess and Sam a few minutes later by the car. Sam, the perfect gentleman, has wrapped his coat around Jess’ shoulders. He looks pale, though, in a way that Dean doesn’t think has anything to do with the chill.

 

“Good movie?” Dean asks, earning a scowl from Sam.

 

“Great!” Jesse beams. “The special effects were really convincing.”

 

“I bet,” Dean says, unlocking the car.

 

“What did you do?” Sam asks. “Did you and Cas catch a movie?”

 “Yeah…the space one.”

 

They climb into the car and drive home, Sam and Jess whispering to each other, no-mans land conquered.

 

Later, as Dean lies awake in his bed, he finds himself actually looking forward to school on Monday, because it means seeing Cas again. Maybe they can find a day for their Firefly marathon, maybe they can drive out to the diner after school one day. Maybe they can make out in the janitor’s closet again.

 

But when Monday rolls around, Dean instead finds himself staring at an empty desk in the front row.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	12. Chapter twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be honest, I had completely given up on this story. I´m not really sure why I gave up, lack of courage, probably. I was too embarrassed to even read the comments people were leaving.
> 
> And then, my mind wouldn´t let me sleep until I had written this chapter, so here it is. It´s not been Beta read or anything and I cannot promise that it will quickly be followed by another, but....
> 
> ...well, I hope you enjoy it.

**Chapter twelve.**

 

 

Dean tries hard not to let his imagination run riot. There is probably a good explanation why Cas isn´t at the first lesson. Maybe he overslept. Maybe he has an appointment with the dentist. Maybe he’s got a meeting with the school advisor or something.

 

 

 

His explanations grow as thin as his nerves as the day drags on and Cas still doesn’t make an appearance. The last time Cas was away from school, he had looked like he’d gone into the ring with a professional boxer and lost.

 

 

 

When the school day comes to an end and Cas still hasn´t made an appearance, Dean decides to just visit his place. He’ll bring him his homework. Cas will appreciate it because he actually seems to like doing school work. And he’ll just…talk to him. Make sure he´s alright.

 

 

 

It takes all his courage to make his way down the driveway to the row of impressive houses and manicured lawns. Behind him he can see autumn, at last, has made the stride in full and the trees in the park is a riot of orange, red and gold.

 

 

 

He stands on the front steps of Cas´s massive house, smoothing flat an imaginary wrinkle in his shirt, trying to still the wild gallop of his heart. Before he can change his mind, his finger is pressing the doorbell. All too soon he hears the hard, staccato of Zachariah’s footsteps marching towards him.

 

 

 

Zachariah yanks the door and glares at Dean as if he´s some vile creature that dares to darken his doorstep. Zachariah’s shirt rolled up to his elbows and Dean sees the muscles bunch and clench under his skin.

 

 

 

“What do you want?”

 

 

 

“Hello,” Dean takes a deep breath, “I´m wondering if Cas is home?”

 

 

 

“Cas?”

 

 

 

Dean doesn't flinch under the withered glare that Zachariah levels at him.

 

 

 

Shit. This can't be good.

 

 

 

“Castiel,” Dean corrects. He pulls out a random assortment of books out from his bag and hopes Zachariah won´t look too closely at them. “We´re working together on this project and…”

 

 

 

“I’m afraid Castiel has been grounded.”

 

 

 

“Oh, that’s…why?”

 

 

 

Zachariah jams his arms under each other and glowers at Dean. "The rules of this household are none of your concern.”

 

 

 

Dean bites back the retort that’s on the tip of his tongue. He won’t improve the situation by getting on Zachariah’s bad side.

 

 

 

“Well, could I just talk to him, discuss some details about the assignment?”

 

 

 

“You’ll have to do your discussions at school.”

 

 

 

“So, Castiel will be at school tomorrow?”

 

 

 

Zachariah’s expression goes through an interesting assortment of emotions before he settles on a tight smile.

 

 

 

“Castiel is suffering from the consequences of staying out in the cold, but I’m sure he’ll be back at school in a couple of days.”

 

 

 

Dean remembers Cas’s breath misting in the cold evening. His coltish frame pressed against his as they kissed. So, Cas has gotten a cold. He feels ridiculously glad for the reasonable explanation. Then he feels ridiculous for being glad that Cas is sick.

 

 

 

“I’m sorry to hear that he’s ill,” Dean swallows, “could I just…visit him and…tell him-“

 

 

 

“No,” Zachariah’s lips presses into a thin line, mirrored by the angry slant of his eyebrows.

 

 

 

“But-“

 

 

 

In one fluid movement, Zachariah yanks the books from Dean´s hands and slams the door in his face. Dean stands still with shock, staring at the closed door.

 

 

 

 

 

 

That was definitely weird.

 

 

 

Dean circles the house, counts his way until he finds Cas´s dark window. He sees movement behind the curtains and the light is turned on. Two figures move back and forth, the tallest waving his arms. Zachariah, Dean thinks and watches the figure pace back and forth before he disappears. A minute pass, another before the curtains are pulled aside and Dean sees Cas peer down at him. He gives a little wave, and then he slips away. Dean’s hand is still raised as he watches Cas leave.

 

 

 

 

 

Dean can’t sleep.

 

 

 

He lies awake with this strange awareness that has coiled itself in his stomach. He knows something isn’t right in Zachariah’s household. That he’s hiding something. Pamela had told him to trust his instincts. Now he wishes they weren’t dragging their claws across the memory of Cas’s terrified eyes the first time Dean showed up at his doorstep. Of Zachariah’s looming shape in Cas’s window.

 

 

 

 

 

The next day, Dean  drops Sam off at the front of the school with a forced, cheerful “meet you in the parking lot after the last lesson.” 

 

 

 

“Sure, Dean,” Sam unbuckles his seatbelt and slips out of the car.

 

 

 

Jesse is standing on the steps, waiting for Sam. Sam almost trips and falls, twice, in his eagerness to greet her. Dean watches the two of them disappear and tries to lessen his smirk. Sammy is such an adorable dork.

 

 

 

He parks the car a couple of roads away and waits until it’s after ten o’clock before he dares to step outside. If Zachariah is going to leave for work, he’ll have done so by now.

 

 

 

The driveway is empty. Dean makes his way around the back of the house, being careful of potential, nosy, neighbors.

 

 

 

Even though the trees are bare and the grass is yellow, the garden is immaculately groomed. Not a single blade of grass standing apart. Dean finds a large, solid piece of bark, tests the weight of it in his hand and hopes it will do its job.

 

 

 

The first time he misses, the second time the bark ricochet on the bars. Dean is pretty sure he stands there for ten minutes until he manages to land a solid piece against Cas’s window.

 

 

 

The window opens a smidgen, as much as the security bars will allow it and Dean sees a sliver of a figure.

 

 

 

“Cas,” Dean shouts as loudly as he dares.

 

 

 

The figure moves but doesn’t respond.

 

 

 

“Cas,” Dean calls again, “open the patio doors.” Dean waves his hands to the French doors leading out to he garden, in case Cas isn’t familiar enough with his own home.

 

 

 

The window is pulled shut.

 

 

 

As Dean waits, the pit in his stomach begins a steady descent. What if Cas doesn’t open. What if he opens the door and he’s covered in bruises, or his arm is in a sling and Dean will have to force the truth out of him. He pictures himself talking to the police, of Zachariah’s smooth, even tones dismissing it as utter nonsense and-

 

 

 

He’s not sure how long he stands in the garden, waiting, his head spinning. Dean is about to give up when he spots movement on the first floor. He hurries over to the doors and knocks on the windows. The figure startles. Behind the wispy curtains, he sees Cas’s dark shape as he struggles with the security locks. After what seems like an eternity, the doors slide open. Cas doesn’t step outside. Instead, he withdraws like he’s trying to disappear into the fabric of the curtains.

 

 

 

“Can I come in?” Dean asks.

 

 

 

“I….” Cas’s voice is low and hoarse. He shivers, wraps his arms around himself.  Dean remembers that Zachariah had said that Cas was ill. Maybe standing here in the draft isn’t the best thing for him.

 

 

 

Dean kicks off his shoes and steps inside, carefully sliding the door shuts, but not locking them. If he has learned anything from Hollywood films it is that it’s always a good idea to have an exit strategy.

 

 

 

The room is dark, even if it’s a bright day outside. All the curtains are pulled shut and it takes his eyes a few moments to adjust to the gloom.

 

 

 

“Hey, Cas, are you alright?”

 

 

 

“Hello, Dean,” Cas rasps, suddenly standing close. Dean feels heat radiate from him, the sticky, humid one that comes with a fever. He pulls the curtain aside and Cas blinks owlishly in the sudden glare.

 

 

 

He’s clad in a pair of light blue pajamas like he’s just stepped out of an episode of Pleasantville. His hair a halo of dark tufts of hair. He is pale and drawn and across his forehead is a thin sheen of sweat. His eyes are red and his nose looks sore and painful. Cas covers his mouth with the sleeve of his pajama shirt and coughs so viciously that Dean worries he might break in half.

 

 

 

“You sound bad,” Dean winces, feeling guilty for dragging Cas out of bed, “I shouldn’t have bothered you-”

 

 

 

“I’m glad you are here-” the end of his sentence is interrupted by a new, wretched cough. Cas twists away from Dean and covers his mouth with his hand. His frame shaking as a cough rakes through his body.

 

 

 

“Right, let’s get you back up to bed,” Dean slides a hand around Cas’s waist. Cas stiffens and for a moment Dean thinks he is going to pull away. He has an apology already formed in his mouth when Cas finally relaxes against him. Slowly, his hand inches around Dean’s back, his arm slotting around his shoulder, his weight resting against Dean.

 

 

 

“Why are you here?” Cas mumbles as Dean guides him through the living room and towards the stairs.

 

 

 

“You didn’t come to school on Monday. I was worried about you and that douche of a stepfather wouldn’t let me see you, so I figured I’d wait until he left work and see if you were alright.”

 

 

 

“I’m grounded,” Cas wheezes, “that’s why….he wouldn’t let me come to the.-“ The rest of the sentence is lost as Cas hacks and gasps his way through another vicious cough. Dean squeezes his arm around Cas’s waist and doesn’t miss the way he winces in pain.

 

 

 

“Sorry,” he mumbles and loosens his grip. “I hope you didn’t get in trouble because of our,” Dean swallows around the word before forcing it out, “our date.”

 

 

 

Cas’s silence is a resounding answer.

 

 

 

“Shit, Cas, you should have told me,” Dean mutters, squeezing Cas closer to him as the two of them make their way down the corridor towards Cas’s room. Cas’s feet falters every other step, but Dean doesn't let him fall.

 

 

 

“I wanted to go to the movies with you, but my stepfather would never have allowed it,”  Cas mutters, “I didn’t know he’d be home early.”

 

 

 

Dean’s not unfamiliar with the experience of sneaking out of his room or going against his parent’s strict orders. He has been grounded more times than he cares to admit. But there’s this small nagging voice in his mind that tells him that Zachariah wasn’t just content with grounding his stepson.

 

 

 

Dean pushes open the door to Cas’s bedroom. The room is as clean and tidy as last time, even the curtains look as though they’ve been ironed straight.

 

 

 

“Here we go,” Dean says and gently leads Cas across the carpet and eases him into his bed.

 

 

 

He pulls back the covers and eases Cas into the bed, catching every twinge and wince of pain across Cas’s face as he lies down. Relief flutters his eyes closed. Dean tucks his bedding around him until only the top of his head is visible, his large and glassy. Dean feels a ridiculous swell of affection and gently runs his hand across Cas’s hair, brushes his wet locks of hair out of his eyes. He feels warm and Dean wishes he had a thermometer so he could make sure that his fever isn’t too high. He glances around the room, looking for one, and  notices that his bedside table is empty. There’s no tissues for his runny nose, no glass of water, cups of tea, cough medicine or Tylenol.

 

 

 

Cas opens his mouth to speak, but only manages another round of coughs and he curls in on himself as the tremors wracks his body.

 

 

 

“Let me fetch you something to drink,” Dean says and it’s a testament to how poorly Cas feels that he doesn’t even try to voice his protest.

 

 

 

Dean hurries down the stairs and makes his way to the kitchen. It is as spotless as the rest of the house and carries no visible trace of anybody  using it. It reminds him more an exhibit in an upmarket kitchen store than the heart of somebody’s home. He almost feels like a thief, going through the cabinets until he finds a glass in the cabinet above the sink. He fills it with cold water. After some rummaging through the other cupboards and drawers, he locates some pain killers and a packet of soft tissues.

 

 

 

When he returns, Cas is huddled under the covers, lying so still that for a moment Dean thinks he has fallen asleep. Then he opens his eyes, the blue of faded glass and gives Dean a loose smile.

 

 

 

“Here, take these, it will help you feel better.”

 

 

 

He hands the pills and the glass over to Cas who shuffles up in bed until his back is resting against the headboard. He tosses the pills onto his tongue and swallows with a large gulp of water.

 

 

 

“Thanks.”

 

 

 

“No worries. You need anything else?”

 

 

 

Cas shakes his head and sinks back under the covers. Dean  places the glass of water and the tissues on the bedside table. Then he stands there, a little helpless, staring at Cas’s closed eyes, listens to his labored breathing.

 

 

 

After a moment, Cas opens his eyes to Dean. For a second a puzzled frown mars his brow as if he had forgotten that Dean was in his room.

 

 

 

“Shouldn’t you be in school?” He asks, blinking hazily at him, “won’t you get in trouble for skipping?”

 

 

 

“It’s alright,” Dean lies and slowly lowers himself until he is sitting at the edge of the bed, “I’ll explain the situation to my mom, she’s pretty understanding.”

 

 

 

Cas’s smile is a soft thing, curling the corners of his lips, “I think your mother is pretty great.”

 

 

 

“Man, after you’ve tasted one of her pies, you’ll be ready to swear your undying allegiance to her.”

 

 

 

“I believe you,” Cas says, sounding breathless. His eyes close again. His breathing evens out to a whistling wheeze. He looks peaceful, Dean thinks, calm.

 

 

 

They sit for a moment in silence. Dean finds his hand drifting, almost of its own accord, across Cas’s head, petting his hair like he remembers his mom doing when he was ill. In the quietness, Dean finds himself meandering towards the topic he’d been mulling over all day. Pamela’s words of offering him a safe place.

 

 

 

“Hey, um, Cas, can I ask you something?”

 

 

 

Cas forces an eye open and then another, “sure.”

 

 

 

He hesitates for a moment, his eyes drifting to the bars on the window. Was this really the safe place, Pamela had suggested? Dean reels back his courage, clears his throat until he finds his voice.

 

 

 

“When we were in the car, going to see James, you…you said something about your stepdad, leaving you alone a lot and….”

 

 

 

Cas is watching him with cat-like anticipation, his hands curling into claws against the bedsheets. It looks like he is trying hard to rein in the size of his anger.

 

 

 

“….and I just wanted to know if….you know, everything is alright. At home. I mean, with your stepfather. Because-” the rest of his words spills clumsily from his lips, “ you can always, you know….tell me. If things are, you know, difficult or…or you know. I will always listen to you.”

 

 

 

“Things are fine,”  Cas answers, though his eyes, the lilt of his voice says something Dean can’t quite place.

 

 

 

“You can tell me anything, always.”

 

 

 

“There’s nothing going on,” Cas repeats, this time narrowing his eyes at Dean, daring him to prove him wrong.

 

 

 

“If you are sure….I mean, anytime-“

 

 

 

“Dean, things are fine.”

 

 

 

Dean is pretty sure his heart is trying to claw its way out of his throat. He’s bracing himself for Cas’s dismissal, for him to tell him to get hells out and mind his own business. But Cas doesn’t say anything else, just glares at Dean like an affronted owl, daring him to call him a liar.

 

 

 

“Okay,” Dean says, his hands curling into his laps, his nails digging into the palm of his hands. “But I mean it, you can always talk to me, or….come hang out at my place.”

 

 

 

He sees the slight hesitation in Cas’s eyes before he nods, his fingers finally relaxing their grip on the covers.

 

 

 

“Alright,” Dean swallows, “I should get going, I might make it back in time for lunch.”

 

 

 

Cas nods again, his eyes never leaving Dean. Cas’s hands crawl across the bed and grabs hold of Dean’s hand, his grip firm and moist and he half pulls Dean towards him, half uses him as leverage to pull himself up until Dean feels the warmth of his breath against his lips. He turns towards Cas, the better to meet his mouth, Cas’s hand finds the strong, broad planes of Dean’s back and rests there. Dean hears a low, appreciative noise at the contact and realizes that the sounds are coming from him. Cas lightly cups Dean’s jawline, his warm hand sliding towards his cheek. Despite the delicacy of the caress, Dean feels like he’s  being cradled, guarded like something precious Cas was afraid to lose.

 

 

 

The kiss doesn’t last for more than a few seconds before Cas pulls away with the same loose smile he had the first time they kissed. Dean’s lost in the kiss for another beat before he returns the smile.

 

 

 

“Hope you don’t get sick,” Cas says with something akin to guilt in his voice.

 

 

 

“Be well worth if it I do,” Dean grins and gently pulls Cas in for another kiss.

 

 

 

They part again, and Dean pulls himself away from Cas with some difficulty. He rearranges the covers around him and tucking it tightly around his feet. Cas’s eyes drift close until only a sliver of blue is visible under his dark lashes.

 

 

 

“Oh, here,” Dean says and pulls his cellphone out from his pocket. “I know you said you didn’t have one, and being sick can be boring, so….”

 

 

 

Cas’s eyes widen as Dean slips his phone into Cas’s hands. He spends a few seconds teaching him how to unlock it, how to turn off the sound so that Zachariah won’t hear him call and how he can stream movies on the tiny screen.

 

 

 

“You can text me on Sam’s number,” Dean explains, “you know, if you need anything, or just want to talk. The battery should last until tomorrow. I’ll bring around the charger after school or tomorrow morning.”

 

 

 

“Are you sure…” Cas says, his fingers already tightening around the device.

 

 

 

“Yeah, no worries, as long as you don’t make any long distance calls to Europe or anything.”

 

 

 

“I won’t,” Cas says with such reverence, you’d think he was taking an oath in a court of law. Dean smiles and tucks his hands into his pocket.

 

 

 

“I’ll text you later,” Dean says from the doorway.

 

 

 

“Okay,” Cas’s voice is soft, his hands still gripping the phone as though he’s been given a lifeline.

 

 

 

Later, Dean wishes the metaphor wasn’t so apt.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your wonderful words of encouragement. I hope you will enjoy this chapter. It is rather heavy on the angsty side and packed with feels.

**Warning: Discussion and implied references to domestic abuse. I do not know anything about the foster-care system in America and this is not meant as a criticism of it. Keep in mind that Cas has Dean's phone, and Dean has Sam's phone.**

 

**Chapter thirteen.**

 

After the last lesson of the day, Dean finds Sam at the back of the school, hanging out with some of his friends from debate club. Dean takes a moment to observe his little brother. His backpack is resting by his feet, but he’s got a protective grip on one of the straps. His hair is covering his ears. He has to sweep it out of his eyes as he talks to his friends, his hands telegraphing his excitement. Dean can’t remember the last time he saw his brother this happy. He wonders if Jesse is the cause.

 

Sam doesn’t even notice him approaching. So, Dean announces his presence by slinging an arm around his brother’s shoulder and squeezing him close.

 

“Hello, Sammy.”

 

 Sam scowls and struggles free from Dean’s grip. 

 

“Dean,” he hisses and casts a furtive glance at his friends. Dean only knows them sight, or rather by type. Two girls and a boy, all with large, dark, glasses covering half their faces. The blonde kid has a pencil tucked behind his ear while the girl is carrying a massive, red book.

 

“Are you going to introduce me to your friends?” He nudges Sam playfully in the shoulder. It earns him another scowl and a muttered instruction to mind his own business.

 

“I’m busy, Dean,” Sam says.

 

“Sure,” Dean raises his hands defensively. He can recognize when he’s dangerously close to crossing a line. “I just need a few minutes of your time; that is all.”

Sam sighs, like talking to Dean is a burden thrust upon his shoulders.

 

“Sorry guys,” Sam turns to his friend, “just need to talk to my brother.” 

 

“Sure,” the tallest kid says, watching Dean with a calculating gaze. Dean grins and waves. He wraps his arm around Sam’s shoulder again, corralling him against his side.

  

He leads Sam across the school ground to the relative privacy at the back of the bicycle shed. He lets go of his brother, who immediately pulls away.

 

“What do you want, Dean?”

 

“So, I need to borrow your phone now and again.”

 

Sam narrows his brows and clutches his schoolbag closer to his chest. Dean rolls his eyes and stuff his hands into the pocket of his jacket to show Sam he’s not about to take his phone by force.

 

“What happened to your phone? Did you run over it with the car again?”

 

“What? No, nothing like that. I’ve lent it to Cas.”

 

“Why?”

 

Dean tries to wheedle out of answering by giving Sam a casual shrug. He isn’t ready to tell Sam about Cas and him yet. Because Sam will ask so many questions that Dean doesn’t have an answer to yet? Is he gay now? Doesn’t Dean like girls? Didn´t he have four girlfriends just last year? Maybe he’s bisexual? Is he in love with Cas? How long as it been going on? Doesn’t he know that Cas is a bully and a brute?

  

And worse, Sam will make him talk to their mother about it. That’s the responsible thing to do. Mary is good. She will instinctually know that Dean is hiding something more than his….well. Dean churns a few words around in his head. Boyfriend sounds far too scary. A friend isn’t all that accurate either. None of the friends he has kissed in the past (and there might have been a few) have made his stomach do summersaults.

  

So, anyway, this thing, with Cas, his mother will know something is going on. Dean has never mastered lying to their mother.

  

“Dean!”

 

Sam punches his arm, and Dean rubs the offended spot.

 

“I lent it to him because he’s stuck at home, sick, with no internet. Poor guy is bored out of his wits.”

 

“Oh.” Sam’s expression settles into the one he gets just before he declares it his mission to save baby dolphins.

  

“So, if you get any texts from me, those are actually from Cas, alright.”

 

There is an undisclosed threat at the end of those words that Dean knows Sam is reading, loud and clear. If you open any of those messages, I’ll make sure you regret it.

 

Sam studies Dean for a moment, his eyes thoughtful. Dean wonders what Sam sees in his expression. Hope? Despair?

 

“Yeah, sure, I’ll let you know if I get any texts from…well, you.” Sam swings his backpack onto his back, declaring the conversation finished.

 

“Great, thanks.” Dean gives his brother a friendly pat on the shoulder, using just enough force to make Sam grimace.

 

 

Later that night, when the house is quiet, the way it only is when all its occupants are asleep, Dean lies awake staring at the glow of Sam’s mobile phone. It had cost him one week of doing Sam’s chores, and his oath upon the Impala, that he wouldn´t read any of Sam’s text messages or send any embarrassing ones to any of his friends. Especially not Jesse.

 

None of those options had even entered Dean’s mind. His only attention is on Cas’s texts. He’d received one, just after dinner, thanking him for letting him borrow his phone. It had been radio silence since then. Even if it’s getting close to midnight and Dean knows Cas is sick and should be resting, he wants to talk to him. Because, he cannot shake the dread growing inside him. Like somebody has knocked something loose in his chest, and it’s floating perilously close to his heart.

 

**Sam > when will u stepdad be home? I want to come over w t charger.**

 

Minutes ticks by.

 

Half an hour.

 

Dean closes his eyes, is almost drifting off to sleep when the phone vibrates in his hands.

  

**Dean >He having dinner with some coworkers. He will not be home until late.**

 

**Sam > Can I come over after school?**

 

A few seconds passes in silence. Dean imagines Cas weighing the pros and cons of inviting Dean over. Zachariah hadn’t been exactly thrilled to see him the first time he came over uninvited. Today he’d slammed the door in his face.

 

**Dean > Yes.**

  

Dean is already typing his response when the next message ticks in.

**Dean > Please.**

 

It’s just one word. It shouldn’t make his heart cramp.

 

**Sam > 4pm. Back garden.**

 

 

This time, Cas is waiting for him behind the large, French windows, half hidden behind the curtains. He’s dressed in the same sort of pajamas as last time. He’s also wearing what Dean is pretty sure is a dressing gown, in a shade of blue that matches his eyes. It shouldn’t be possible for somebody to look as nice as Cas does while wearing a bathrobe.

  

“Hey,” Dean says as he slips inside. He hurries to closes the door, shutting out the chilly air.

  

“Hello, Dean,” Cas rasps. Dean presses the back of his hand against Cas’s forehead. He’s still warm and flushed, but he’s not shivering or sounding like he’s coughing up a lounge.

  

“How are you feeling?”

 

“Somewhat improved,” Cas replies.

 

“You still look like you belong in bed,” Dean circles an arm carefully around his shoulders. Cas tenses. Curls his back like a cat before he lets out a trembling breath and relaxes against Dean’s hold.

  

“Let’s get back upstairs, I brought the charger for the phone.”

 

Dean kicks off his shoes and carries them with him.

 

They navigate their way through the house. Somewhere, between the living room and the staircase, Dean’s arm has slid down Cas’s side. He’s pulling away when he feels Cas’s fingers grab his. It’s a clumsy grasp, fingers clutching fingers.

 

They return to Cas´s room, and Cas slides back under the covers, pulling them up to his chin. He’s staring at Dean. Eyes wide with wonder. Like he can´t believe that Dean is here. As if he’s bracing himself for the next magnificent thing Dean will do.

  

“You got your laptop anywhere?”

 

“Desk drawer,” Cas murmurs.

 

Dean drops his shoes under Cas’s desk. He finds the computer and connects the phone’s charger to the USB port. He fiddles around with the machine for a few minutes, feeling the weight of Cas’s eyes on his back.

 

“Here,” Dean says.

 

He takes a seat next to Cas on the bed. Cas scoots up until he’s sitting with his back against the headboard. “Now we can watch movies on your laptop,” he explains. He shows Cas how he’s using the phone’s wireless to connect the computer to the internet. He finds the web page and logs in on his account.

  

“Anything you want to watch?”

 

Cas is biting his lower lip in concentration as he slowly navigates his way through the hundreds of movies and series available.

 

“Narnia?” There is something akin to hope laced in his voice that sends shivers down Dean’s spine.

 

“Sure. Scoot over a bit?”

 

Dean crosses the room and turns off the lights. Cas pulls back, towards the wall until there is just enough room for Dean to squeeze in next to him, on top of the covers. He settles the laptop on his knees, angling it so that Cas has a good view of the screen. It’s a tight and uncomfortable fit until Cas maneuvers Dean’s arm over his shoulder and leans into the space between.

 

The movie unfolds the pale, harsh light of war spilling into the dark room. Dean keeps as still as he can with the warm weight of Cas against him. Cas lies with one ear pressed against Dean’s chest, and Dean hopes he can’t hear how fast and loudly his heart is beating. When the Pevensies children reach their new home, Cas looks up to Dean staring at him, the adoration in his eyes enough to make Dean choke on his breath. Cas smiles, a smile that seems to spread from the sides until it lights up his eyes. It’s one of his rare smiles that Dean believes thinks only he gets to see.

 

He twists his head and plants a kiss on top of Cas’s head, hiding his embarrassment in the soft strands of his hair. Cas´s breathing evens out, his body warm and lax against his. Dean closes his eyes, only for a little while, to savor the moment.

 

 

Dean wakes with a start, struggling against the tide of sleep that tries to drag him back under. It takes him a while to orientate himself. The room    isn´t his. Far too tidy for that.

 

“Dean,” Cas hisses, his eyes fierce “Dean, we fell asleep, and I just heard a car-“

 

Car? What car? Dean’s not a light sleeper and he hasn’t heard anything-

 

They both freeze at the same time as a sharp sound breaks the silence. The sound of a car door slamming shut.

 

“Shit,” Dean throws himself out of bed, combing his hand through his hair. What should he do? Run? Run. That´s the best option. Where are his shoes?

 

“Dean, it’s too late,” Cas scrambles out of bed. He peers out the window, yanking the curtain close and cursing under his breath.

 

 

 

"He´s back early! He said he´d go straight to the company dinner. " Dean hears him choking on his frenzied breath, frantic eyes flitting about the room.

 

“Hey,” Dean grabs hold of Cas’s shoulders, hoping his touch is enough to ground him. “Hey, calm down.” Cas’s trembling frame stills under his hands and Dean pulls him close, wrapping him in a hug.

 

“Dean,” Cas wheezes, curling his hands into claws against Dean’s chest. Digging his fingers into the fabric of his shirt. “Dean, if he finds you here, he’ll-“

 

Dean’s stomach sours, his fingers twitching with restraint. A part of him wants just to march out and confront Zachariah. He’s fairly certain the guy won’t try to hit him, and that he can take it if he tries to.

 

He feels immediately guilty for thoughts. Getting into an altercation with Zachariah isn’t going to help Castiel at all.

 

 

 

“Dean,” Castiel pleads in a breath close to a sob. Dean closes his eyes to regain control of his scattering wits. In the darkness behind his lids, he hears the front door opening. Closing. The sound of heavy steps moving around downstairs. In a few minutes, Zachariah will come upstairs.

 

“It’s gonna be alright; I’ll just….” He glances around the room. There are bars on the window, so no escape there. He could try his luck down the corridor. Maybe if he can find somewhere to hide until Zachariah leaves. Maybe, if he’s unlucky, he’ll find himself in Zachariah’s office or bedroom.

 

“I’ll hide, under the bed.”

 

Cas pulls away, and his expression would almost be comical if his eyes weren't brimming with fear.

 

“Hide the phone and the charger,” Dean says. He gives Cas’s shoulder one last squeeze before he reluctantly pulls away. Cas grabs the phone, all the cords, and the laptop and places them in the desk drawer. He takes Dean’s jacket and shows it into his wardrobe.

 

Footsteps are slowly ascending the stairs. They pause for a moment on the landing, as if Zachariah is stopping to catch his breath.

 

Dean lowers himself to the floor and peers under the bed. It’ll be a tight fit, but there is just enough room between the bed and the floor. He pulls himself under, drags himself across the floor until his face is pressed against the wall, his back to the room. He hears Cas’s ragged breath tearing from his lungs. For a moment, Dean worries that Cas is having an anxiety attack. But then, Cas’s breathing stills. The room is quiet. The bed above him squeaks and dips as Cas crawls back in, seconds before the door opens.

 

Soft light pours in from the corridor and spills across the room lighting up the back of Deans’s head. Dean curls in on himself tries to tuck himself as small as possible. He squeezes his eyes shut so hard he sees stars. Don´t let Zachariah see him. Don´t let Zachariah see him.

 

The sound of Zachariah’s footsteps across the floor are loud and clear.

 

“How are you feeling, Castiel?”

 

He holds his breath, feels the mattress bruises against his ear as Cas turns in his bed.

 

“Somewhat improved, sir,” Cas murmurs in a voice so quiet that Dean is certain Zachariah couldn't have heard him.

 

The bed groans under the sudden, additional weight. Dean twists around and sees the ugly fabric of Zachariah’s pants, the dark sheen of his shoes. And then sees his sneakers kicked off and discarded under Castiel’s desk. His heart starts to hammer wildly beneath his ribs.

 

“I came home from work to check on you before the company dinner.”

 

Whatever Cas says next is drowned in the rush of panic in his ears. Nauseated with dread, Dean carefully turns back to face the wall. There’s nothing he can do about his shoes now; his only hope is that Zachariah won’t turn on the lights. Won’t bend down and look under the desk, turn and look under the bed.

 

“You will be ready for school tomorrow, then.”

 

It’s not a question.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“You’ve missed too much school already. First, because you got into a fight,” there’s a sharp edge to Zachariah’s words that cuts like glass. “And then you went and contracted the flu.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Cas mumbles, "I´m sorry."

 

“You do know you are in an ill of your making, hm?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

The mattress above Dean bends the springs squeaking. Dean realizes that Zachariah must be leaning over Cas. He holds his breath, hoping it will tame the wild gallop of his heart.

 

“You know what is expected of you, Castiel.”

 

The space of a single heartbeat passes before Cas’s whispered response drifts through the silence.

 

“I know, sir.”

 

“Good,” Zachariah’s voice suddenly loses its deadly edge, and he sounds almost cheerful. The space above Dean’s head grows as Zachariah pulls back. He hears him shuffle across the floor, pausing in the doorway, creating dark columns in the warm light.

 

“I’ll be back around midnight.”

 

“Have a good evening, sir,” Cas says. He almost sounds sincere.

 

The door closes. The room goes dark, and Dean can finally let go of the sigh that’s been building in his chest. He waits another few seconds until he can no longer hear the sound of Zachariah’s footsteps.

 

“Wait until the car is gone,” Cas whispers.

 

Dean doesn’t answer, just swallows and swallows the bile that’s building in his throat. The stair creaks, the front door slams shut. An engine rattles to life. Gravel crunches under tires.

 

Still, Dean waits.

 

“It’s safe,” Cas whispers, "you can come out now."

 

He drags himself out from under the bed, not surprised that he is not covered in dust bunnies. Cas is standing by the window, peering out between the slip in the curtains. Dean tries to catch his attention. He wants to wrap his arms around him and hear Cas assure him that he’s okay. Even if he knows, it’ll be a lie.

 

“I should probably go,” Dean mumbles. Cas doesn’t move and after a tense moment, Dean walks over to the desk and fishes out his shoes.

 

Dean pauses by the door, hand on the doorknob. His mind alights with hundreds of trapped thoughts and feelings and emotions. He fears he’s going to burst at the seams.

 

“Cas.”

 

Finally, he turns. Their eyes meet. Cas’s eyes are fathomless, and Dean thinks he sees something different in their depths

 

It makes his heart stumble over its next beat and his stomach tie itself into unpleasant knots.

 

“Please know that you….” Dean takes a breath, finds his courage. “I meant it when I said that you can tell me anything, anything at all, always.”

 

The apple of his throat bobs and then he turns away again, curling in on himself, shoulders hunching to his ears. His back is a taunt T, all sharp angles, and lines, an impassive wall to Cas’s emotions.

 

Dean’s hand tightens its hold on the doorknob so that he doesn’t do anything stupid with them, like grab hold of Cas’s shoulders and shake the truth out of him.

 

“Text me, or call me, anytime, alright?”

 

This time, he doesn’t wait for a response and he’s closing the door behind him when Cas finally does speak.

 

“It’s James.”

 

Dean turns slowly, carefully, like Cas is a wounded animal.

 

“Your brother.”

 

He walks back into the room and closes the door behind him. Cas turns back to him, arms crossed over his chest. Dean can see the expressions warring for control over Cas’s features. Like he doesn't know the right way to feel about this situation.

 

 

 

“Zachariah pays for the care home,” he murmurs, “what’s going to happen if we’re made Wards of the Court? They might….they might separate us to different states. What if they just…put him in some crappy state-run-home and forget about him?” Cas’s hands are balled into fists, “he can make it so that I’ll never get Guardianship over James.”

 

 

 

Punctuated clarity of understanding, several things fall into place. Dean hadn’t even considered what might happen to Cas’s brother. That Zachariah was holding Cas’s affection for his brother as a ransom. It makes him regret not forcing the confrontation with Zachariah. He'd have wiped the floor with that slimeball.

 

 

 

“Cas….”

 

 

 

“No,” his voice is clipped with anger. “No, Dean, it’s-“

 

 

 

“It’s not alright,” Dean says, struggling to keep a lid on his emotions, to keep his voice calm. He takes a step towards Cas, relief flooding his chest when Cas doesn’t pull away from him.

 

 

 

“I’ll graduate soon,” Cas fingers curls around his elbows, “then I can get a job and take care of my brother.”

 

 

 

Dean remembers when Cas had been Novak, the two of them at the diner after Alistair almost beat the crap out of him. He remembers the smell of plastic and coffee. Cas’s quiet confession of how his stepfather wanted to force him into the family business. How he dreamt of working in interstellar exploration and design spacecraft. Dean rubs a hand across his eyes, half hoping he can wipe away the memory as well.

 

 

 

“He’s not….he’s not….hurting you, is he?”

 

 

 

Cas can’t suppress the truth fast enough to stop it from reaching his face.

 

 

 

Dean’s throat works against the bile in his throat. His skin feels clammy, and he clutches his knees, bends over, sucking in air to get enough to fill his lungs.

 

 

 

“Jesus, Cas, that’s not- you can’t stay here if he-“

 

 

 

Cas fingers are like a vice around his wrist, clutching him so hard Dean is certain he’s going to have bruises tomorrow.

 

 

 

“It’s not,” a look of utter desperation floods his face, “it’s nothing. You can’t tell anybody, Dean. I’ll tell them you’re lying if you do. I’ll tell them-“ he stumbles over his threats as Dean grabs hold of his arms and yanks him close. Cas flails against his embrace for a moment, hands clawing and scratching at his arms.

 

 

 

“Shit, Cas you can’t-“

 

 

 

His movements still. For a moment, Dean feels like they are suspended on the edge of a cliff, that either one of them might pull the other down. That Cas will tell him to leave and that he never wants to see him again. And he sees his future without Cas unfolding before him, dark, and cold and lonely. Suddenly, he fears that alternative far more than he fears for Cas’s safety in Zachariah’s house. Shame fills his features and he squeezes Cas closer, hiding his expression in the crock of his neck. Breathe in the scent of him until he's drowning in it. It’s ridiculous because he’s only known him for a few days. Doesn't know him at all and it should be impossible to feel….feel all these things.

 

 

 

“Dean,” a low, agonized moan seeps from the young man in his arms, and Dean loosens his hold. Cas doesn’t move away. Just stands there in the open space of Dean’s arms, rudderless and confused.

 

 

 

“I’m sorry,” Dean croaks. He’s not sure if the word is enough to cover all the things he’s sorry for. For squeezing Cas too tightly. Cas’s situation. Cas’s fear that Dean might do the sensible thing and tell somebody. Cas’s fear of losing his brother to an imperfect foster-care system that is not kind to kids Cas’s age. To young men, like James.

 

 

 

“I won’t tell, if you don’t want me to,” Dean says. He reaches for Cas again, and Cas lets him. He touches his chin, slides a hand along his jaw to cradle his face. Cas turns a little until Dean’s fingers are sliding across his cheek.

 

 

 

“If you don’t want me to, I won’t tell anybody,” Dean repeats. “But you….if he hurts you….if he does something....” Dean flounders for a moment, “something worse.”

 

 

 

“It’s only a few months,” Cas says. His hand covers Dean’s smoothing the fingers flat, hand warm and soft.

 

 

 

“You should go,” Cas says, “he said he’d be back early.”

 

 

 

Dean nods and pulls away. He doesn’t let go of Cas’s hand, keeps his fingers securely laced in his all the way down the dark stairs and across the shadowy living room. He pulls on his shoes and shrugs on his coat. Cas watches him with a tight smile.

 

 

 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Cas says, “at school.” He hesitates, as if he’s not sure if he’s permitted to take what he wants and settles on placing a chaste kiss on his lips. The kiss deepens when Dean’s hand combs through Cas’s hair, presses him so close he can feel the heat of his fever against his skin.

 

 

 

Cas’s smile is loose and sincere when they pull apart, a red blush across his face that has nothing to do with his fever.

 

 

 

“It’ll be alright,” Cas says as if Dean’s the one in need of reassurance.

 

 

 

“Okay,” Dean says, but the words does nothing to loosen the Gordian knot in his stomach.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to get to know the people in this fandom, so please look me up on tumblr as friolerofiction.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


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